Demelza & the Spectre Detectors

by Holly Rivers

  It was only when she let her head flop back down on to her pillow and gazed up at the dark wooden beams above that something suddenly clicked in Demelza’s brain.

  Psst, psst, psst . . . Psst, psst, psst . . .

  As if in double time, everything from the previous night suddenly came rushing back, memories exploding across Demelza’s mind’s eye like fireworks. The unexplainable whispering, the unearthly sounds, her trembling body . . .

  Demelza sat bolt upright.

  Grandma Maeve! Was she OK? Whatever she’d heard last night might have got into her grandmother’s room too! She had to check that she was all right.

  Within the blink of an eye Demelza had leapt out of bed, and without even stopping to give Archimedes his morning tummy tickle, she pulled on her dressing gown and flew through her bedroom door.

  ‘Grandma! Grandma, where are you?’ she shouted, lowering herself down the higgledy-piggledy stairs from the attic. She flew across the landing, ducking under the collection of overhanging cuckoo clocks and avoiding the cabinets of china nick-nacks and the taxidermy animal heads that protruded from the walls. As she leapt down the main staircase, the old wooden floorboards groaning beneath her feet, the sound of the grandfather clock chiming eight greeted her at the bottom.

  She bounded into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, Demelza, it’s you,’ said Grandma Maeve. ‘I thought it were a fairy elephant comin’ down them stairs!’ She was huddled over the rusty gas stove, copper saucepans of various sizes bubbling away over the flames. The shelves above were lined with jars of potted meat, tins of soup and containers of herbs, spices, grains and pulses. Shiver, their long-haired dachshund, was nuzzling at her feet.

  ‘Grandma, are you OK?’ Demelza panted, letting her hands rest on her knees. ‘It didn’t get you, did it? You’re not hurt or anything?’

  ‘Hurt?’ replied Grandma Maeve, drizzling some amber-coloured honey into the largest pot before giving it a stir. ‘Why on earth would I be hurt?’ She shuffled her feet as if tap-dancing, her slippers scuffling against the limestone flags. ‘See! Fit as a fiddle, me!’

  Demelza’s brow furrowed. ‘But . . . but last night . . . didn’t it wake you up?’

  ‘What are you talkin’ about, Demelza?’ replied Grandma Maeve. ‘Didn’t what wake me up?’

  Demelza’s voice rose. ‘The thing that was making the horrible noises! The whispering, the whooshing, the wailing? You must have heard—’

  Grandma Maeve dropped the ladle she was holding on to the counter and a deafening clatter echoed around the kitchen. Shiver jumped from his spot and dashed to the safety of the pantry.

  ‘N-n-noises?’ stuttered Grandma Maeve, quickly averting her gaze to the floor. Her tiny frame had suddenly stiffened. ‘No, I didn’t hear no noises. Probably just the wind outside, my darlin’. Them old windows rattlin’. You know how ancient this cottage is, don’t you?’

  Demelza tutted. ‘I know all that, Grandma. But these noises were different. They . . . they . . . weren’t normal.’ She sat down at the oak breakfast table and poured herself a cup of tea from the chipped china teapot. Beams of autumn sunlight fell upon the cotton tablecloth, wild flowers blooming from a jug at its centre in shades of red and ochre and green.

  ‘Well, it’s probably just your imagination,’ said Grandma Maeve, fiddling with the hem of her cardigan. ‘Too much stimulation from all them big books. I told you inventin’ ain’t good before bed.’

  Demelza frowned. There was something strange about Grandma Maeve’s tone of voice, something nervy, curt. ‘Well, let’s just check the news at least,’ Demelza suggested, reaching towards the radio on the dresser. ‘Maybe something happened in the village? Or what if there’s been some kind of apocalyptic worldwide disaster? We could be the only survivors!’

  Demelza switched on the radio, but as she turned the dial from station to station there was no mention of anything out of the ordinary – one news reporter talked of the birth of a baby panda at Little Penhallow zoo, while another gave the results of the local tiddlywinks team’s home win.

  Grandma Maeve brought the saucepan over from the stove and slopped some porridge into her granddaughter’s bowl. ‘As I said, just your imagination. Now, eat up and I’ll see you after school. I’m goin’ down to me greenhouse. There’s an egg boilin’ in the pot for you, give it three minutes if you want a runny yolk.’

  Demelza looked over to her grandmother’s empty bowl. ‘But Grandma, you haven’t had anything to eat yet. And you always say that breakfast is the most important meal of the—’

  ‘Not hungry!’ interrupted Grandma Maeve, pulling on her wellington boots at the back door. ‘And besides, I’ve got marrows to harvest, plants to water, the hens to feed. And those pumpkins you got me to plant for Halloween won’t pick themselves . . .’

  Demelza noticed that Grandma’s cheeks had flushed pink, but before she could say anything, the back door slammed shut and the old woman was hurrying down the garden path.

  ‘Fine,’ Demelza grumbled to herself, slumping over her bowl of porridge. ‘If Grandma Maeve doesn’t believe me, then I’ll just have to prove that something’s going on.’

  Demelza pondered for a moment, ideas shooting through her brain like stars across a galaxy. She let globule after globule of porridge fall from her spoon, slopping back into the bowl with a satisfying splat. Shiver padded over and began to nudge her feet with his nose, letting out a small whine which either meant walkies or food or both.

  ‘Frolicking filaments! I’ve got it!’ Demelza exclaimed suddenly, pushing back her chair with a screech and jolting to her feet. ‘My Fantastical Fortune-Telling Toaster! That should give me some answers! Why didn’t I think of it before?’

  She bounded over to the unorthodox-looking toaster that was perched atop the refrigerator in the corner and plugged it in. Coils of wire spiralled out of it from every angle and it was covered in buttons, knobs and switches. Demelza had recently constructed it after having trouble deciding what to do with her time one rainy Sunday morning. Now, when a question was asked of it, an answer would be given through the colour of the bread that popped out. If the slice was golden brown then the answer to the question was YES, but a piece of burnt toast meant that the answer was NO. Its results hadn’t exactly been accurate every time (recently it had declared that, YES, Grandma Maeve was indeed a flesh-eating zombie giraffe from outer space), but Demelza thought that it was reliable enough.

  She put a thick slice of wholemeal into one of the slots and pulled down the lever. ‘Was there an intruder in this cottage last night?’ she asked it.

  She waited patiently as a series of timers and dials began to whirl, beep and flash before her eyes. There was a loud ding, a high-pitched ping, then—

  POP!

  The slice of toast shot out of the machine like a rocket and Demelza plucked it out of the air. It was a lovely shade of pale brown. ‘Yes!’ said Demelza. ‘As I thought.’

  She loaded in another slice of bread. ‘Should I invent something to help me investigate further?’ she asked next.

  POP!

  Once again, the toast appeared golden.

  ‘Well, that settles it!’ she exclaimed, reaching down to Shiver, who was now sniffing around for dropped crumbs. ‘As soon as I’m home from school today, I’m going to invent a booby trap. Whatever came into my room last night is going to be caught.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The Greys

  With her unbrushed auburn hair trailing behind her, Demelza cycled down the winding hill from Bladderwrack Cottage towards school, the reds and golds of autumn leaves crunching under the wheels of her bicycle. It had once belonged to Grandpa Bill – Grandma Maeve’s late husband – but with a lick of red paint and a shiny new bell, Demelza had made it as good as new. As always, she was wearing her thinking cap, and her satchel was stuffed with a selection of her most useful inventions – she liked to be prepared for any eventuality and after all, who knew when a Self-Playing Harmonica, an X-Ray Pe
riscope or a Glow-Worm Powered Headlamp might come in handy?

  As she rode, Demelza took in the scenery of Little Penhallow and smiled. Everywhere she looked, pumpkins adorned front porches and windows, their triangular eyes and crooked smiles waiting to be lit up on Halloween night. It was just under two weeks away. What costume should I wear this year? she wondered. Last years’ decision to dress up as Ms Cardinal hadn’t gone down very well at school, and had resulted in a whole week in detention. Maybe a Transylvanian vampire would be a safer option this time? Or a warty-nosed witch?

  But first, Demelza had the mystery of the night-time noises to concentrate on, and as the newly tiled roof of Percy’s house came into view she had an idea. Maybe he could help her come up with the design for her booby trap. She’d previously read all about the different types in a volume of her encyclopaedia – there was the Leg-Hold Trap, the Cage, the Glue Trap, and her personal favourite, the Pit. But which one should she construct to capture an as-yet-unidentified intruder?

  Arriving at Percy’s house, Demelza leant her bicycle against the large front gate. Even though it was only a stone’s throw away from Bladderwrack Cottage, it couldn’t have been more different. Because of his allergies, Percy very rarely stepped outside, so it was just as well that the house consisted of ten bedrooms, six bathrooms, two lounges, a games parlour and a conservatory. Demelza didn’t understand it. Yes, Percy might be sickly, but surely keeping him locked up like a prisoner couldn’t be good for his health either. Maybe Mr Grey was just being paranoid? After all, it can’t have been easy for him, bringing up Percy on his own.

  Demelza crept across the immaculately pruned front lawn, where a couple of burly gardeners were busy clearing leaves and trimming hedges under the watchful eye of Tiger, the Greys’ ginger cat. Demelza nodded to the gardeners as she passed, and thought that maybe they could come and help Grandma Maeve with her weeding before the winter frost set in. Even though her grandmother liked to insist that she still had ‘the energy of a whippersnapper’, Demelza knew that she’d secretly appreciate a helping hand.

  At the front door, Demelza pressed the bell and the chimes of ‘Greensleeves’ echoed through the house.

  ‘Who is it?’ came Mr Grey’s booming voice from within. ‘If you’re selling something, I’ve already told you that we have more than enough tea towels, thank you very much!’

  ‘It’s Demelza, Mr Grey. Demelza Clock.’

  The door flung open to reveal a short, portly man, whose little grey moustache nestled under his nose like the gills of a mushroom. ‘Ah, Demelza!’ he said, flashing a welcoming grin. ‘I’m so sorry about that. How nice to see you! Everything all right?’

  Demelza nodded. ‘I was wondering if I could come and say hello to Percy before school? I won’t keep him long, I promise.’

  Mr Grey smiled. ‘Well, of course you can. It does do Percival good to mix with other children on occasion. And I know he enjoys your company. But you remember the rules, yes? NO opening curtains more than three centimetres; NO sharing food; and most importantly, NO skin to skin contact. Percival is a very poorly boy with—’

  ‘With a very weak constitution,’ interrupted Demelza. ‘Yes, Mr Grey, I know.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Mr Grey coughed and reached into his pocket. He brought out a glass medicine bottle and shook a tiny white tablet into Demelza’s hand. ‘Why don’t you take Percival’s power pills up to him, eh? As much as he’d like a bacon sandwich for his breakfast, his poor tummy just won’t abide it. His allergies, you see.’

  Demelza took the tablet and frowned. A tablet for breakfast? How awful! If she couldn’t have a nice fresh egg or a bowl of porridge of a morning, she probably wouldn’t bother getting out of bed.

  Mr Grey stepped back and let Demelza inside. ‘Now, you know where Percival’s bedroom is, yes? But don’t be too long. His private tutor, Fräulein von Winkle, will be arriving in twenty minutes.’ He turned into the house and shouted upstairs. ‘Percival, you have a visitor!’

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Percy. ‘You think that there might have been some kind of flesh-eating monster in your room last night?’ He was tucked up in bed wearing more layers than an Arctic explorer, his pale white face peeking out from under a hooded dressing gown. A well-thumbed copy of The Nautical Adventures of Captain Thalasso: Volume 3 was open on his bedside table – perhaps the closest that Percy was ever going to get to adventure.

  ‘I don’t think,’ replied Demelza, who’d wasted no time in filling him in on the strange midnight noises, recalling every detail with over-dramatic vigour. ‘I know there was!’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Demelza,’ said Percy, rolling his eyes as he pushed a lock of his bright white hair from his face. ‘I know you’ve got a really vivid imagination, but that’s just ridiculous.’ He thought for a second. ‘And besides, if there really was a flesh-eating monster in your room last night, then why didn’t it gobble you up alive, eh?’

  ‘Because . . . because . . .’ Demelza stopped short, struggling to find an answer. ‘Ufff! Well, maybe the monster idea was a bit far-fetched. But there’s something strange going on and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Using one of your weird inventions, no doubt?’ replied Percy with a chuckle.

  ‘Of course!’ said Demelza, her knee beginning to jerk. ‘When I get home from school this afternoon I’m going to make a booby trap to seize the culprit! When Grandma’s gone to bed I’m going to wait up and see what it catches.’

  Percy slumped back into his pillows and sighed heavily. ‘It must be nice to have a hobby like inventing. I get so bored up here on my own doing next to nothing. There’s only so many comics a person can read in a day.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I came here to ask you about,’ said Demelza, leaning in. ‘Why don’t you come over to mine later, and we can work on the trap together? Do you think you can convince your dad?’

  Percy let out a dismissive laugh. ‘You are joking, aren’t you? My dad panics when I go to the toilet on my own. He’d have a heart attack if he found me out of bed in the middle of the night, hunting for trespassers.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Percy, it’ll be fun! You’re always wishing that your life was more exciting, that you were more like Captain Thalasso.’

  ‘Demelza, I’m not even allowed in my own garden! Dad’s hired some men to do the front lawn, and I’m forbidden to go anywhere near them, let alone give them a hand. Apparently rakes and trowels are a “hotbed for germs”.’ He gazed down at the hero on the front of his comic book and sighed sadly. ‘Look, there’s nothing I’d like more than to run around after dark and solve mysteries but it’s not going to happen.’

  Demelza crossed her arms gloomily. ‘I still don’t understand why your dad’s so overprotective. Are you really that ill? You seem all right to me.’

  ‘I feel absolutely fine most of the time,’ replied Percy. ‘But you know what dads are like – such worriers!’

  Demelza felt a lump the size of a toffee forming in her throat. She didn’t really know what dads were like at all. All that she could remember of her own was the smell of his wax jacket, the warmth of his cuddles, his head of curly black hair. She could barely remember her mum either — they’d both died in a car accident just before her fourth birthday. Bladderwrack Cottage had been her home ever since, and Grandma Maeve her guardian.

  Feeling the sting of tears in her eyes, Demelza hoisted her satchel over her shoulder and quickly made for the door. ‘Well, I’d better get going, then. I’ll pop by again tomorrow and let you know how I get on with the booby trap, if you want?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ Percy replied with a smile. ‘Now, quick, escape from here while you still can. Fräulein von Winkle is scarier than any nocturnal flesh-eating monster, and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of her.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Stricton Academy

  Having successfully escaped Percy’s house, Demelza set off through the village, and soon enough arr
ived at the looming grey building that was Stricton Academy. It was a gargantuan Victorian structure, with spiky turrets jutting upwards from its roof and sinister-looking gargoyles keeping watch over the concrete playground below. There were no plants or flowers, the only greenery being the weeds that poked up through the cracks in the ground. The school motto, ‘Your Best Will Never Be Good Enough’, crested the front gates in curling iron letters, and served as a constant reminder of the school’s strict regime.

  Demelza’s stomach lurched with dread as she made her way through the gates. What ridiculous act of ‘disobedience’ would get her banished to the detention room today? Wearing socks in the wrong shade of grey? Blinking too loudly? At least she wasn’t a boarder – imagine having to go to bed here every night! She’d prefer to sleep in one of the pigsties down at Happy Trotter Farm.

  As the morning bell rang, she pushed through the throng of brown-uniformed pupils and made her way along the school’s labyrinthine corridors. Cabinets of sports trophies and framed certificates lined the walls, and portraits of the staff of yesteryear kept watch, as if they were still on duty.

  Demelza was just approaching her classroom when some familiar voices echoed down the corridor from behind.

  ‘Well, look who it is – Stricton Academy’s resident weirdo!’

  ‘How are you today, De-smell-za?’

  Demelza spun around to find a pair of identical twin girls sauntering towards her from the boarders’ wing, like some grotesque two-headed monster. Both were clutching files covered in golden merit stars, one neatly labelled Penelope Ottoline Smythe, and the other, Persephone Cordelia Smythe. They were so similar that if it wasn’t for a small mole on Penelope’s cheek, you might have thought that you were seeing double. Behind them stood Miranda Choudhury – their personal bodyguard and the brawn to their brains – whose muscular frame was more akin to that of an Olympic wrestler than a schoolgirl. As usual, she loitered silently, fists clenched.