by Jenny Nimmo
“I shall tell Dr. Bloor about this,” said Mrs. Weedon as she followed them through the cafeteria. “You’d better go straight to bed.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong,” Charlie protested.
“I’ve only got your word for that.” She grunted.
They heard the lock click as they walked away from the cafeteria door. Charlie felt for the gingerbread in his pocket, glad that he’d managed to grab something before he was caught.
Matron looked in on the boys when she came to turn off the light. “Your uncle will pick you up tomorrow,” she said coldly. “What a nuisance you are, Charlie Bone.”
“Billy’s coming home with me,” said Charlie.
The matron pursed her lips but she didn’t argue. Uncle Paton had forced the Bloors to sign a document, promising that Billy could spend the weekend with anyone he wished.
It was a bitterly cold night and they huddled under the blankets to eat the food they’d taken from the kitchen. Charlie soon fell asleep. He dreamed of his parents, riding the waves in their sturdy boat, while whales sang in the ocean. “They do sing, you know,” his mother had said. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
Charlie had found himself shaking his head. His parents needed their time alone. They had lost ten years of being together; besides, instinct warned Charlie that he must remain in the city, the place where so many people had wanted his father “out of the way,” where plots were hatched and where Charlie’s friends were constantly in danger.
In Charlie’s dream the whales’ song gradually changed into a sad lament, and as he listened to it, he became aware that he was awake and listening to the distant, desperate howl again.
“Billy, can you hear it?” Charlie whispered.
“Yes,” said Billy. “It keeps repeating the same words, over and over. ‘Help me!’ It kind of knocks against my heart, Charlie. What are we going to do?”
“Help it,” Charlie replied, though he had no idea how.
On Saturday morning, rain, occasionally turning to sleet, drifted down the windowpanes. The sky was a dismal, leaden gray and the temperature freezing.
There was still no sign of Cook so Charlie and Billy ate a miserable breakfast in the green cafeteria: burnt toast again, no butter, and no cereal. They thought they would have to go without a drink until Mrs. Weedon plunked down a jug of water and two mugs on the table.
“I suppose we couldn’t have a bit of butter?” Charlie asked cautiously.
“You suppose right,” said Mrs. Weedon.
“Jam?” suggested Billy.
Mrs. Weedon ignored him and marched out, returning two minutes later with a pot of white stuff. “Dripping,” she told them. “It’s good for you.”
The boys eyed the dripping doubtfully. As soon as Mrs. Weedon had gone, Charlie stuck his knife into the pot and brought it out, smeared with dripping. He licked the knife. “Uuurrrghh! It tastes disgusting.”
Billy was of a different opinion. “I quite like it,” he said, spreading the dripping thickly onto his toast. “The burnt bits don’t taste so bad with this on top.”
After breakfast they wandered up to the King’s room. There was no one around to tell them what to do. If Manfred Bloor had been there, he would probably have ordered them outside onto the grounds. He had been very keen on getting students outside, especially when it was cold or wet. Where WAS Manfred?
“I heard he looked like a monster.” Billy glanced around the room, half-expecting Manfred to appear from behind a bookcase. “He’s all bent and lame.”
“I’m surprised he’s alive,” said Charlie in a low voice. “Not many people could survive a leopard attack.”
“Leopards.” A note of awe crept into Billy’s voice. “And they look like ordinary cats, except for their color.”
“Mmmm.” Charlie had never ceased to wonder how three cats had, for a few vital minutes, become leopards, capable of tearing a human being to shreds. Well, not shreds, perhaps, but near enough.
At noon the boys decided to look for Cook. After such a meager breakfast their stomachs were already rumbling. As they descended the main staircase they saw a figure making its way across the hall. A dark cape covered most of the body. Only the feet, clad in black boots, could be seen from below pants that hung in folds around the ankles. A hood was thrown over the head which jutted forward from the hunched shoulders in an odd, uncomfortable way.
The boys froze as the hooded figure limped over to the door in the west wing. There was something desperate in the way it rattled and shook the ringed handle, seemingly unable to turn it. But at last the door opened and it was then that the figure turned toward the boys.
They expected to see a frowning face, an expression of annoyance at being watched. But the hooded man had no face. Charlie and Billy found themselves looking at a white mask with slanting, silver-rimmed eyeholes and a gaping, boat-shaped mouth. And then it was gone, slipping through the small door with surprising speed, leaving the boys agape on the stairs.
“Manfred,” Billy whispered.
Charlie nodded. “Must be.”
“I feel all peculiar,” said Billy. “I’m trying to imagine what sort of face he’s got.”
“Don’t,” said Charlie.
They found Cook, at last, at the far end of her kitchen. She was muttering out loud to herself as she threw chopped onions into a sizzling pan. Charlie called her name and, receiving no reply, gently touched her arms. Cook screamed and her wooden spoon went flying through the air.
“Why did you do that?” she screeched.
“You couldn’t hear me, Cook. You were talking to yourself.”
“Was I? Well, what of it?” Cook straightened her apron and turned down the gas.
When she heard about the food the boys had been forced to endure, Cook calmed down a little and promised them some minestrone soup for lunch. “With a bit of apple crumble to follow,” she added. “I’ve got some in the oven for the Bloors.”
“Where’ve you been, Cook?” Billy asked. “You’re always here at breakfast time.”
“I was staying with a friend. I nearly didn’t come back, I can tell you. But my friend convinced me that I must. She’s such a sensible person.” Cook lifted the lid on her saucepan and threw in a handful of herbs.
“Mmmm!” Charlie closed his eyes. The smell coming from the saucepan was so delicious he could almost taste it.
“It’s not ready yet.” Cook shooed the boys back into the cafeteria. A few minutes later she appeared with two bowls of steaming minestrone.
“You wouldn’t really leave Bloor’s, would you?” Charlie asked Cook.
She grimaced. “Has Billy told you about that boy Dagbert?”
“I know all about Dagbert.” Charlie sighed. “And Lord Grimwald and what he did to you. It’s horrible, Cook, but Dagbert doesn’t know who you are. Why should you be afraid of him?”
“I can’t help it, Charlie. It churns my stomach, just thinking about that family. By the way, Billy, your rat has been moved.”
“Rembrandt? Why? Why can’t he stay in the Pets’ Café?”
“He’s disgraced himself,” said Cook. “Been stealing treats. It’s all very upsetting. You know how Mrs. Onimous loves him. She didn’t want him to go, of course, but Mr. Onimous insisted. I hear the poor snake misses him terribly, quite lost its color. But there we are.”
“But where’s Rembrandt now?” Billy asked in a desperate voice. “Is he happy? Does he like his new place?”
“He’s in the Kettle Shop,” Cook informed them. “Can’t steal anything there, except tea, of course. And he’s not very fond of that, by all accounts.” She turned away.
“Where is the Kettle Shop?” asked Billy.
Cook hesitated. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere. “The Kettle Shop,” she said absently, “is on Piminy Street. Ask for Mrs. Kettle — a very good friend of mine. Enjoy your soup.”
When Cook walked back into the kitchen, Charlie noticed that the spring had left her ste
p. She was usually such a positive and cheerful person; it worried him to see her so dejected.
The promised apple crumble soon followed the minestrone soup and, leaving Cook still talking to herself, Charlie and Billy made their way back to the King’s room. With no one in charge, it was difficult to apply themselves to work.
“If Olivia was here she’d make us explore,” said Billy wistfully.
But Olivia wasn’t there and the very mention of her name made Charlie angry. He couldn’t forget the way she had flounced off, telling him he was a liar and a fraud.
“Oh, come on, let’s explore,” Billy pleaded.
Charlie groaned and put down his book, which had suddenly started to get interesting. “OK.”
Where to explore? Billy didn’t have an answer. Not in the attics where Mr. Ezekiel lived among his grisly experiments. And not in the basement, where Dr. Bloor kept ancient instruments of torture, among other gruesome objects. And certainly not on the grounds, where sleet had turned to a white mist of hail.
They eventually decided on the art room. Paintings were always entertaining, even if they weren’t beautiful. And the sculpture room held some very impressive works. Lysander was a particularly fine sculptor, and Tancred’s statues could be interesting, never mind that you couldn’t always tell what they were.
The art room lay just beyond the boys’ dormitory and overlooked the garden. Today the long windows showed only a moving sheet of snow and hail. It cast an eerie light over the forest of easels and drawing boards.
“Let’s go and see Lysander’s statue,” Billy suggested.
A wrought-iron spiral staircase led down to the sculpture room. As they descended, an unexpected sound came drifting up to them. Singing. Or was it chanting? Who could it be? As far as they knew no one else had been given detention that weekend.
When they reached the sculpture studio, they tiptoed around blocks of wood and plaster and odd-shaped statues. In the center of the room stood Lysander’s masterpiece, a very lifelike carving of his mother, Jessamine Sage, and her new baby.
The chanting grew louder as they moved through the long room. When they got to the other side, there was no doubt that the voice was coming from the room beyond. A room used for dressmaking classes and first years’ drawing lessons.
Charlie put his hand on the doorknob.
“Go on,” whispered Billy. “Let’s see who it is.”
Charlie flung open the door.
There was a shriek, a flurry of paper, pins, and fabric, and the boys found themselves staring at Dorcas Loom. On the wide worktable in front of her lay the biggest pair of scissors Charlie had ever seen. And he didn’t fail to notice the pots and boxes, the small cans, and bunches of herbs that sat in neat rows beside the scissors. His great-aunt Venetia had something to do with this.
“Snoops!” cried Dorcas.
Charlie ignored her accusing glare. “What are you doing in school?”
“What are YOU doing in here?” she retorted, hastily pulling a sheet of tissue paper over something blue.
Charlie had seen what it was. “I’ve got detention,” he said airily. “What’s your excuse?”
Recovering her composure, Dorcas said haughtily, “I don’t need an excuse. I’m working on something for your aunt Venetia.”
“I can see you’ve got all the right stuff.” Charlie picked up one of the cans and read the label. “Altering Bugs. Is that to …”
“Give it to me!” Dorcas interrupted. She grabbed the end of the can while Charlie still held firmly to the lid. It was inevitable that the two parts should separate.
A cloud of orange bugs poured onto the table, covering scissors, pins, and cotton reels.
“Fiends!” yelled Dorcas, frantically pulling things out of the way of the bugs. “Get out of here. GET OUT!”
Charlie and Billy didn’t move. Before their very eyes, the bug-covered items were slowly changing shape; they were growing longer, thinner, smoother.
“Wh-what are you doing, Dorcas?” Billy asked shakily.
“Mind your own business,” she bellowed. “GET OUT. GO AWAY!”
She was drowned out by a roar from the doorway.
“Are you deaf, Charlie Bone?” shouted Weedon. “I’ve been searching the entire school for you. It’s time to go home. Unless you plan to spend another night here.”
“NO, no,” said Charlie. “I didn’t realize. Is Uncle Paton …”
“Won’t come in. Keeps phoning me from that wretched cell phone of his. Blasted gadgets. Should never have been invented. Instruments of the devil, if you ask me.”
Charlie rushed past Weedon with Billy close behind him. They tore up to the dormitory to fetch their bags and were back in the hall in three minutes flat. Weedon came lumbering downstairs after them.
“You don’t deserve a vacation,” he grumbled, unlocking the heavy door.
Charlie didn’t bother to point out that one day away from school wasn’t exactly a vacation. The sleet had died away at last, but it had been replaced by an icy fog. They could barely make out Uncle Paton’s car parked across the square. As usual his head was bent over a book. Unusually, he wasn’t wearing his dark glasses.
“Can hardly see a thing in this fog,” Uncle Paton remarked as the boys scrambled into the backseat. “So I doubt that anyone can see me.”
They drove cautiously out of the square. It was already getting dark and the streetlights appeared as soft halos of light, hanging in the fog.
“Extraordinary fog,” said Uncle Paton as he peered ahead. “It tastes of salt. Must have blown in from the sea, though goodness knows it’s miles away.”
“The sea.” Charlie was beginning to make a connection. “Uncle P., there’s a new boy at school. His endowment, he says, is drowning.”
Uncle Paton chuckled. “Drowning? A ghostly shipwreck of a person, then?”
“It’s serious, Mr. Yewbeam,” said Billy earnestly. “He drowns OTHER people.”
Charlie added, “His father is Lord Grimwald. The man who …”
“Good heavens! I know who you mean, Charlie. A wrecker if ever there was one. He’s been keeping quiet lately. I thought he was dead and buried. Mind you” — Uncle Paton honked at a car that loomed out of the fog, dangerously close — “there have been a few drownings in his area lately. Fishermen mostly. They put it down to the weather, but you never know.”
“Where is his area?” asked Charlie.
“North.” Uncle Paton waved a hand in no particular direction. “One of the islands. No one knows the precise location. They’re a curious bunch, the Grimwalds. Legend has it that when a son of that family reaches twelve years, his father dies — or he does. The two cannot both survive beyond the son’s thirteenth year. A family tragedy, you might say. On the other hand, one drowner is better than two.”
Charlie had lost a father when he was too young to remember him. But now that father was found, how terrible it would be to lose him again, when he was twelve. A twinge of fear caused him to shiver as he thought of his parents surrounded by the sea. He could even taste the salt on his lips.
The car jerked to a halt as Paton suddenly realized they were outside number nine. When they got out of the car, the fog wrapped itself around them like an icy blanket.
Billy coughed and clutched his chest. “It goes right down your throat,” he spluttered. “Like swallowing cotton wool.”
As they climbed the steps the muffled sound of church bells stole through the misty air, and Paton said, “Ah, that reminds me, your great-aunt Venetia was married today, Charlie.” He opened the front door.
“What a horrible day for a wedding.” Charlie remarked as he stepped inside. “Bad luck, I expect.”
His uncle wiped his feet on the doormat. “I wasn’t invited, naturally.”
The boys were very glad to find that Maisie hadn’t been invited either. They were able to sit down to a delicious tea without Grandma Bone’s sour face looming across the table.
“You should ha
ve seen your grandma,” Maisie said. “She decided to go to the wedding after all. Disapproval all over her face, but she couldn’t miss it. She was purple from head to foot. Yes, even purple shoes with big bows on them, and what a hat! Grapes galore. Looked like a fruit salad.”
The image of Grandma Bone’s long face beneath bunches of purple grapes caused Charlie to choke on his snack, and then the whole table was laughing, Uncle Paton loudest of all.
Charlie thought of visiting Benjamin after tea, but the view from the kitchen window wasn’t encouraging. The houses across the street were buried in darkness and fog. All that could be seen were tiny pin-pricks of light from the cars making their way slowly down the street.
Billy peered wistfully through the window. He longed to fetch his pet rat but didn’t dare to suggest it on such an unfriendly night.
“We’ll get Rembrandt first thing tomorrow,” Charlie promised. “And we’ll take Benjamin and Runner Bean with us.”
Sometime during the night, the fog slowly rolled away. A full moon appeared high in the sky, and a hard frost covered the city. Every roof glittered as though it were dusted with silver. In the wilderness across the river, a captive creature began its melancholy howl.
Sunday morning greeted the boys with bright sunshine and an icy blue sky. They made their own breakfast — cereal, toast, and milk — before anyone else was up. But Maisie struggled downstairs in her curlers and pink bathrobe, just as they were finishing.
“You make sure you’re back by lunchtime or I’ll come after you,” she said. “Piminy Street is right behind the cathedral, near Ingledew’s bookstore. If you want to stop at the shop for lunch, give me a ring.”
“We won’t be going there,” Charlie said awkwardly.
Maisie tilted her head to one side. “Had a fight with one of your girlfriends?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Charlie said heatedly, “and I haven’t had a fight with anyone.”
On their way out, the boys noticed a very large, colorful hat sitting on the hall chair. It did look like a fruit salad. The sight gave Billy a fit of the giggles, and Charlie immediately felt better.
Benjamin was always ready for an expedition, and Runner Bean was beside himself with joy when his leash was taken from its hook in the hall.
