by Laura Wood
When they looked blank I said, “Stanley Goodwill! An actual historian studying Crumley, under our roof – he’ll have all the answers.”
“Of course,” breathed Ingrid. “Great idea, Poppy.”
I dusted my fingernails on my T-shirt. It was a pretty great idea, I had to admit.
“And even better, he said he’d be working in Agatha’s study,” I said. “Let’s go and see if he’s there now… Maybe we can even have a quick look around the room if he invites us in!” It was the best plan we had, and we also had an hour to kill before Mr Grant took us rock climbing, so it seemed worth a shot.
When I knocked tentatively on the door there was a pause, then Stanley opened the door and peered out at us from behind his thick glasses. He had ink on his hands and his thin hair was rumpled.
“Yes?” he said, expectantly.
“We’re sorry to bother you, Mr Goodwill,” I said in my politest voice. “We know that you’re a historian, and that you’re working on a book about Crumley Castle, you see. We had some questions … about the Redshank brothers.”
“Ahhh!” He wheezed happily. “Questions – I adore questions! Come in, come in!” He stood back and gestured for us to come and sit down. I turned and grinned a victorious grin over my shoulder at Kip and Ingrid. We were in! “I was just making some notes,” he said, running his hand distractedly through his hair and setting it even more on end. “Let me move these things out the way,” and he began lifting pages and pages of notes from the various seats and surfaces around the room.
I cast my eye beadily around the room this time, paying much more attention than I had during my last visit. As well as a very old-looking desk and a pretty fireplace I noticed the painting hanging over the mantelpiece.
“I see you’ve spotted the portrait of Moira Booth!” Stanley exclaimed. “This was in her younger days of course… Quite the beauty, eh?”
The painting was of a young woman, about eighteen years old. Her chestnut hair was piled on top of her head and coiling over one shoulder, a green ribbon threaded through it. She wore a fancy green dress edged in pale lace, and had delicate pale skin and flushed pink cheeks. The thing you really noticed first, though, were her eyes, which seemed to look straight at you from out of the painting, and even though her mouth wasn’t exactly smiling there was something twinkly and mischievous in her eyes that made her look like she was about to burst out laughing. I liked her face immediately.
“Fascinating woman, Moira Booth,” Stanley said, turning and peering at me through his enormous glasses. “Oh yes, she was quite the character as I understand it.”
I looked back at the portrait of the lady in question. “She looks like someone you’d want to be friends with,” I said.
“Moira played an important part in the story of the Redshank brothers and Henry’s disappearance, you know.” Stanley bobbed his head up and down like a nodding dog.
“Did she?” I asked quickly, and I saw Kip and Ingrid perk up as well. That was news to us. So far no one had mentioned Moira Booth’s involvement at all. “Mrs Crockton did say that she owned the castle at the time,” I said thoughtfully, “but not that she had anything to do with the … events of that particular evening.”
“Anything to do with them?” Stanley repeated with a wheezy chuckle. “Why, she was the only witness as to what went on in this very room!”
“She saw it?!” Kip, Ingrid and I all exclaimed in one big voice.
“Well, as to that, we don’t know exactly what she saw…” Stanley said mysteriously. “But not much, I would imagine.”
He caught sight of our puzzled faces.
“If you’re interested in the story then there’s a fascinating account here…” Stanley began bustling around the room, looking for something. I took this opportunity to peer around some more, and I noticed that Kip and Ingrid were doing the same. My attention was captured by a long green tapestry that hung over a wall between the bookcases; it was similar to the ones in the dining room, but prettier, covered in a design of golden flowers.
“Now where is it?” Stanley muttered to himself, running his finger along the bookshelves. “Ah, here we are!” he exclaimed, holding a thin and very old-looking leather-bound book in his hand. “Now, I think you’ll find this very interesting. Moira Booth was quite the progressive mistress of the castle, and she taught all her servants to read and write – quite unheard of at the time, you know. Anyway” – he waved the book gently – “this is Mrs Bidders’s diary; she was the cook here at the time. It’s mostly keeping inventory and notes about the kitchen, but her account of Henry Redshank’s disappearance is rather fascinating reading. I’m sure Agatha won’t mind if you borrow it to have a read – as long as you’re very careful.”
“Oh, we will be,” breathed Ingrid, taking the book that Stanley offered her and stroking its cover reverently.
“What do you think happened to Henry?” I asked. “Do you believe the ghost stories?”
Stanley sighed. “I don’t know, my dear,” he said. “I didn’t used to believe in ghosts, but being here … you see things. Things that can’t be explained…” He trailed off.
“What sort of things?” Kip asked quickly.
“Oh, all sorts,” he said with a shrug. “Strange shadows, things moving from the place you left them, odd lights and noises. Ada used to say that as long as they left you alone, you should just let them get on with their business.”
“I forgot that you were here before the Booths arrived!” I exclaimed. “What was Ada Booth like?”
“She was a dear, dear lady!” Stanley exclaimed, his watery eyes looking even waterier than usual. “Very frail of course, by the end, but she was always so kind to me.” He pulled out a large hanky and blew his nose. “I came here years ago to do some research on the castle. This book has been my life’s work, you see. Ada took me in, asked me to stay and keep her company. Well,” he said, gesturing around the room, “it’s a big place to rattle around in by yourself. It’s such a shame that dear Bernard and Agatha never met her, I’m sure they’d have loved her. They’re such a kind couple, letting an old duffer like me stay – but, of course, this is the only home I have.” His eyes got misty here, and he dabbed at them with his hanky. “And it’s such a special place,” his eyes swept adoringly around the room, “a real historical marvel.” His face looked quite fierce suddenly, as though he thought we were about to disagree with him, but the look quickly vanished to be replaced by his usual absent-minded smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I had better get back to work. You let me know when you’ve had a chance to read the book.”
“We will! Thank you!” the three of us chorused, and we scuttled out of there as fast as we could. I couldn’t wait to get stuck into the book that Ingrid was clutching like a precious jewel. Who knew what clues the diary might hold, and what secrets it may reveal about the ghostly smugglers?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We found a quiet spot in the grounds, underneath an oak tree that provided some welcome shade on another sunny day, and settled down on the warm grass. Gently Ingrid leafed through the book until she found the right pages. The handwriting was messy, the spelling was pretty terrible and the ink was very splotchy, but the cook’s story made for very interesting reading.
For a second we were stunned silent, and there was not a sound but the breeze rustling through the trees overhead. “Is there anything else?” I asked breathlessly, my voice just a little too loud.
Ingrid flicked through the remaining pages. “No, nothing about Henry Redshank.”
“Poor Moira!” I exclaimed. “Although, what an adventure! She really was the only witness.”
“But an unconscious one,” Kip pointed out. “We still don’t know how Henry disappeared, and it doesn’t sound like Moira did either.”
“I’ve been thinking,” I said after a moment, “that maybe I should ask my family if they have any ideas about Henry’s disappearing act. I mean, it sounds like the sort of magic trick Doris w
ould think up.”
Kip and Ingrid both nodded. “That’s a great idea,” Kip said. “Especially because it wouldn’t involve a single ghost!”
Our conversation was interrupted then by the sound of raised voices approaching. Peeking around the tree trunk I saw that Agatha and Bernard Booth were approaching and it looked like they were having a heated argument. Putting my finger to my lips, I signalled to Kip and Ingrid to stay quiet.
“We have to go to the police!” Agatha was saying, in a loud, trembling voice. She sounded close to tears. “How long can we let this go on without doing anything?”
“You know we can’t do that!” Bernard snapped back as they came to a stop on the other side of the tree. “It could be the very worst thing to do. What if someone gets hurt?”
“But, Bernard…” Agatha was sobbing now. “This is just terrible, terrible. Where will we get the money?”
“I don’t know…” Bernard’s voice trailed off miserably.
“I hate this place, Bernard!” Agatha cried. “There’s something wicked at work here. There’s been nothing but one disaster after another since we arrived, and now this – the unthinkable – has happened.”
“Hush!” Bernard cut her off suddenly. “Here comes Fuddling. Don’t let him see you upset.” There was a snuffling noise as Agatha tried to pull herself together. Fuddling was coming towards us and the three of us shuffled around to the side of the big tree as fast as possible. We were now stuck between Fuddling and the Booths, and I held my breath for fear of discovery.
“Ahh, Fuddling!” Bernard said in a completely different, big cheerful voice. “Anything the matter?”
“No, sir,” came the monotone reply. I realized I hadn’t heard Fuddling speak yet, and his voice was very dry and unemotional. “Mrs Crockton would like a word with Mrs Booth about the children’s dinner. Whenever it is convenient,” he continued.
“Fine, fine!” Bernard said. “We’ll both go, shall we, love?” and I heard Agatha make a muffled noise of agreement before they turned to wander back towards the castle.
I waited a second before cautiously peeking back around the tree. To my surprise Fuddling was still standing there frozen to the spot, and a shiver rippled through me like raspberry sauce through ice cream when I caught a glimpse of his face.
As he watched the Booths walk off together his eyes followed them, and in those eyes was a look of pure and unadulterated hatred.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“What was all that about?” Ingrid gasped, after Fuddling left and I gave the all-clear.
“I don’t know, you guys,” I said slowly. “But you should have seen the look on Fuddling’s face as the Booths walked away … it was like he hated them. I mean, really hated them.”
“And what about all that stuff the Booths were saying about the police?” Kip muttered. “And getting hold of some money. What do you think is going on there?”
“I don’t know,” I said again, “but it sounded pretty serious, whatever it is.” Were the Booths in some kind of trouble? I wondered. And if so why couldn’t they go to the police? Perhaps they were on the wrong side of the law, just like the smugglers. It was all so confusing, and there were so many unanswered questions. I had been full of confidence before we began to tackle this mystery, but the further into it we got, the more questions there seemed to be.
“I think tonight we should keep watch and see if the lights come on again,” I said at last. “I don’t know what’s going on with the Booths or if it’s related to the smugglers, but this is the biggest lead we have.”
Ingrid nodded, but Kip looked less convinced. “But… What if it’s a ghost?” he said in a low voice.
“I definitely think there is a human hand at work here,” I said with slightly more conviction than I felt. “But if it is a ghost then … I don’t know, maybe we can ask him what he’s up to.”
Kip looked at me like I had sprouted a second head, but I knew that we were going to have to do something drastic if we wanted to solve this mystery. It was time to take action.
Our plan may have had to wait until the evening but that didn’t mean the rest of the day was going to waste. After our rock-climbing lesson with Mr Grant, which I, for one, really enjoyed (Ingrid, on the other hand, definitely did not), we moseyed into the village to sample the wares of the Buttered Muffin bakery and Kip continued his ice cream alphabet odyssey (Ingrid and I were only too happy to offer our assistance with this). We were in the bakery, paying for our warm saffron buns when Mrs Crockton bustled in with a big wicker basket over her arm.
“Oh, hello again.” She smiled. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much with all that ghost talk yesterday.”
“No, no,” I said reassuringly. “We were really, really interested. We all think the story of the Redshank brothers is completely brilliant.”
“Well, it’s certainly a fascinating slice of history.” Mrs Crockton smiled again as she began filling her basket with crusty loaves of bread.
“Yes, Mr Goodwill let us borrow a book all about it. It was written by Moira Booth’s cook,” Ingrid piped up.
“Oh, really?” Mrs Crockton looked surprised. “I had no idea that existed. Well, now you three know more about it than I do!”
“It sounds really spooky,” I said. “No one seems to know how Henry Redshank escaped.”
“Unless there really was a dark spell involved.” Kip shuddered.
“You don’t really believe that do you?” Ingrid asked.
“Mrs Crockton did see a ghost!” Kip reminded us, and Mrs Crockton nodded. “Clear as I see you and me,” she said. “Though it’s nice to hear someone believes me. Old Fuddling never believed that I had seen that ghost, even though I swore up and down that I had.”
“Mmmm.” I nodded, sensing my opportunity. “But,” I said carefully, “he does seem a bit … grumpy.”
Mrs Crockton laughed at that. “Well, that’s a polite way of putting it, duck, but you’re quite right – the man’s a misery guts and no mistake.”
“Is he upset about anything in particular?” Ingrid asked, innocently.
“Well, he always was a grumpy so-and-so,” Mrs Crockton raised her eyebrows, “but he’s been unbearable since Agatha and Bernard arrived.”
“Why?” I asked quickly. “Doesn’t he like them?”
“Oh, now I wouldn’t say that.” Mrs Crockton shook her head hastily. “I think he’s just disappointed. Old Ada Booth – Bernard’s great-aunt who left them the castle – well, she always made out like she was going to leave Fuddling a bit of money, see? Enough to retire on at least. But she didn’t leave anyone a penny except Bernard – he got the lot.”
“Well, that must have been very upsetting,” I said.
“Fuddling was daft for believing her,” Mrs Crockton said firmly. “Everyone knows old Ada used to promise everyone she’d be leaving ’em money one of these days. Loved stirring up trouble, she did, and making everyone bend over backwards to stay on her good side. Used to say the same to me, not that I ever paid a bit of attention to her, the old goat.” Mrs Crockton was distracted then by the need to pay the man behind the counter. When she had finished she turned back to us, “Now, look at the time!” she exclaimed. “What a gossip I am! I’d better be getting back and making your dinner. Don’t fill up on saffron buns too much, will you?” She gave us a wink and disappeared out the shop and up the path to the castle.
Leaving the bakery, we called in to Rita’s Range to buy postcards and stamps. I wanted to send one to the circus and fill them in on our adventures and I chose a postcard with a picture of Smuggler’s Cove on the front. I also bought a packet of humbugs and I sat on a wall outside the shop, sucking on a sweet and writing my postcard as Kip and Ingrid carried on browsing.
After carefully attaching the stamp I popped the postcard in the shiny red postbox. Finally, we arrived back at the campsite to find everything in chaos. It seemed that somehow all of the tents had been knocked down, and while St Smithen’s stu
dents were good at a lot of things, apparently putting tents back up was not one of them. We found Kip’s tent-mate Riley frowning over a couple of tent pegs.
“What happened?” Kip asked.
“Dunno,” Riley shrugged, “I just came back and they were all like this, and everyone was in a state because the bathroom block has flooded as well. The plumber’s been called out and I think everything’s OK now, but we’ve all got to put our own tents back up and I can only find two of our pegs.”
“It’s strange that all the tents got knocked over.” Ingrid wrinkled her nose.
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully, “seems unlikely that would happen by accident.”
Riley nodded, “That’s what Mr Grant and Miss Susan said. They’re on the warpath because they reckon one of us lot did it as a prank.”
“Why would anyone do that?” Kip asked.
Riley shrugged. A thought suddenly struck Kip and the colour drained from his face. “No one touched our stuff, did they?” he asked Riley, panicked. “No one stole … the sweets?”
Riley clapped a reassuring hand on Kip’s shoulder. “It was the first thing I checked, mate. Your haul’s intact – down to the last jelly bean.”
Kip let out a shuddery sigh of relief. “Thanks, Riley,” he said. “You had me worried for a moment.”
I rolled my eyes at Ingrid and she nodded in agreement. We made our way to our own tent, which we got straightened out in a jiffy. (I’ve pitched a few tents in my time at the circus.)
“Who do you think would do something like this?” Ingrid asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I hope it was just a prank and nothing more. We’ve already got a mystery to solve!” I couldn’t help but think of Henry Redshank’s disappearance. Hopefully my circus family would write back with some helpful ideas about the magical disappearing act – and till then at least we had our plan to catch the smugglers in action, that very night!
