The Haunting of Hiram

by Eva Ibbotson

  Don’t miss the enchanting

  novel by Eva Ibbotson

  THE STAR OF KAZAN

  An enthralling new adventure set in turn-of-the-century Vienna from the author of the bestselling Journey to the River Sea.

  Annika has never had a birthday. Instead she celebrates her Found Day – the day Ellie the cook and Sigrid the housemaid found her as a baby abandoned in a church. Annika’s upbringing in the servants’ quarters of the house of three eccentric Viennese professors means that at an early age she can bake and ice a three-tier cake, and polish parquet floors to perfection. One summer’s evening a very old lady comes to stay with Annika’s awful neighbours. The stories of her extraordinary life as a dancer are spellbinding. Especially the tale of the besotted Russian count who gave her the legendary emerald, the Star of Kazan.

  Suddenly a glamorous stranger arrives at Annika’s door to announce that Annika is no servant, but an aristocrat whose true home is a castle. But at crumbling, spooky Spittal she discovers that her new-found family are not all that they pretend to be …

  ‘Ibbotson’s genius is for creating people (and animals) who you instantly recognize and love’The Times

  Also by Eva Ibbotson

  Which Witch?

  Not Just a Witch

  The Great Ghost Rescue

  The Secret of Platform 13

  Dial a Ghost

  Monster Mission

  Journey to the River Sea

  The Star of Kazan

  The Beasts of Clawstone Castle

  Coming soon

  The Dragonfly Pool

  The Haunting

  of Hiram

  Eva Ibbotson

  MACMILLAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  First published 1987 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This edition published 2001 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This electronic edition published 2008 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-47751-2 PDF

  ISBN 978-0-330-47750-5 in EPUB

  Copyright © Eva Ibbotson 1987

  The right of Eva Ibbotson to be identified as the author of this work

  has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit,

  reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it)

  in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written

  permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized

  act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

  the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy

  them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author

  events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear

  about our new releases.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  One

  On a bleak and rocky spit of land which stretched like an arm into the grey North Sea, stood the ancient castle of Carra.

  There was no wilder or more lonely place in the whole of Scotland. Waves dashed themselves against Carra’s grim towers; seabirds nested in the arrow slits on the ramparts, and on a stormy night the piled-up skulls in the gatehouse rattled together like billiard balls.

  The castle had belonged to the MacBuffs of Carra for six hundred years and, as you would expect, they were a fierce and bloodthirsty lot. The first MacBuff had slaughtered a hundred rival clansmen, cut the hair from their heads, and woven it into a bellrope which he pulled when he wanted his servants to bring him his breakfast. The third MacBuff had thrown a dozen English prisoners into the dungeons and gone off on a fishing trip, leaving them to starve to death – and the wood on the drawbridge is stained to this day by the blood of the sixth MacBuff’s relations: two aunts, a cousin and a nephew, whom he simply murdered as they rode up to his house to spend Christmas.

  But those times were past. The last few owners of Carra had been quite ordinary, though poor, and the time came when the castle and all its lands belonged to a twelve-year-old boy called Alex.

  Alex’s full name was Alexander Robert Hamilton MacBuff, Laird of Carra, of Errenrig and Sethsay. He’d been six months old when his parents were drowned in a sailing accident and since then he had lived at Carra with his Great Aunt Geraldine who had come to keep him company when he was left an orphan.

  Alex had brown hair which stood on end when he wasn’t careful and blue eyes that took everything in. He was a sensible and intelligent person and he did his best to be a good master for Carra, but it wasn’t easy for there simply wasn’t enough money to do what had to be done. Alex would be sitting at breakfast and there’d be a loud splash outside the window. It would be a piece of the West Tower falling into the moat, greatly upsetting the frogs. Or he’d go up the wooden staircase to the gallery to fetch a book he needed for his homework and find that the top step just wasn’t there: it had been eaten by death-watch beetles. And everything got very dusty and dirty because there were only three servants where once there had been thirty: an old butler with a bad back, a housemaid with bad feet and a cook who heard clunking noises in her head.

  Alex did everything he could to save money. He bicycled each day to the comprehensive school in Errenrig; he washed out his own jeans and he helped with the housework. But a few months after his twelfth birthday, his factor came with a lot of pieces of paper covered in figures and when he had gone Alex climbed on to the battlements and stood for a long time looking out to sea.

  Then he came down to find his aunt.

  ‘I have thought and I have thought and I have thought,’ said Alex, ‘and I have decided that I simply have to sell the castle.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, dear,’ replied Aunt Geraldine.

  She was not upset because she was not Scottish, and she wanted to go and live somewhere warm like Torquay, in a hotel with a Palm Court Orchestra and kind waiters and a colour telly in her bedroom.

  So Alex wrote to the estate agents and they came and put up a notice saying:

  THIS CASTLE IS FOR SALE

  After this nothing happened for a long time. A few people came and asked stupid questions like ‘Has it got central heating?’ and went away again. Alex had almost given up hope of ever selling Carra when one day, as he was doing Chemistry at school, the headmaster himself came into the lab and told Alex to hurry home quickly because a Mr Hiram C. Hopgood, an American millionaire, was coming to see the castle that very afternoon.

  Alex just had time to change into his kilt (which the mice had eaten, but not badly) and hurry
downstairs before Mr Hopgood’s big black car crossed the drawbridge and drew up in the courtyard.

  Hiram Hopgood came from Texas, but he wasn’t wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and he wasn’t chewing gum or smoking a cigar. He was small, with a thin, clever face, tufty grey hair and keen blue eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. Mr Hopgood already had seventeen oil wells and three factories and a great many department stores, but now he had set his heart on a proper Scottish castle which of course you cannot get in Texas, USA.

  ‘You must be the Laird himself,’ said Mr Hopgood, coming to shake hands, and Alex said yes he was, and began to show him round.

  Mr Hopgood seemed to be pleased with what he saw. He liked the West Tower with its screech owls and clusters of sleeping bats, and he liked the East Tower with its rusty thumb screws and the iron collars for squeezing people’s throats. He liked the underground passages and the well, with its dark and slimy water; and most of all he liked the bloodstained drawbridge and the bellrope woven from the hair of a hundred slaughtered MacCarpetdales.

  When they had finished, Alex took him to have tea with his Aunt Geraldine and then he and Mr Hopgood went into the library to do business.

  ‘I don’t mind telling you, Alex,’ said Mr Hopgood, ‘that I like this castle. I like it very much. It’s natural. It’s unspoilt. It’s Scottish to the backbone.’

  Just to show how unspoilt everything was, two large cockroaches walked slowly across the floor and stopped by Mr Hopgood’s shoe, but he didn’t seem to mind in the least.

  ‘If I want hygiene and sanitation I can find it in Texas,’ he said. ‘But what I want is atmosphere. And atmosphere is what Carra has got. Now mind you, I’ve got to check out a few points first … take a few measurements … get a few experts. But I don’t let experts push me around and I’m pretty certain that Carra’s what I’m looking for.’

  Alex tried not to look too pleased because he knew that when one is doing business one must keep cool, but his eyes as he stared at Mr Hopgood were full of hope for he could see that the American would be a good master for his home.

  ‘Your factor tells me you want to hang on to that little island out there. Sethsay. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s got a croft on the far side. I’d like to live there when I’m old.’

  Mr Hopgood nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’ve no use for the island. It’s the castle I want. As you know, it’s in a pretty ropy condition so all I’m prepared to offer is half a million. Pounds, of course, not dollars. Five hundred thousand pounds.’

  Alex blinked, but he did not bother to pinch himself to see if he was awake. Being awake and being asleep are quite different, he had found. Half a million pounds! Enough to give all the servants what they needed for their old age, keep Aunt Geraldine in a grand hotel and still have plenty over for the journeys he meant to make as soon as he was old enough! Enough to go to Patagonia and look for the giant sloth … Enough to go to the Himalayas and find a yeti!

  ‘I’ll have to see your lawyers, of course,’ Mr Hopgood went on, ‘but as far as you’re concerned would that be acceptable?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Absolutely. It would be fine.’

  Mr Hopgood took a peppermint out of a paper bag and offered one to Alex.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ he said. ‘A very important thing indeed. I will buy your castle – but only if there are no ghosts!’

  Alex swallowed. ‘I thought Americans always wanted ghosts? I thought they liked everything that was old?’

  ‘Well, I don’t. Personally I don’t mind one way or the other. Ghosts or no ghosts, it’s all the same to me. But I’ve got a little daughter and she’s delicate. She got polio when she was small. My wife didn’t believe in vaccines and … well, there you are. She’s ten now; one foot drags a bit, but she might grow out of it, the doctors say. Only, of course, she’s got to be careful – she mustn’t have any shocks. Would you like to see her picture?’

  He took out a photograph and handed it to Alex. From the way he looked at it, Alex could see that he loved his daughter very much. ‘Her name’s Helen,’ said Mr Hopgood, ‘and she’s nobody’s fool.’

  Alex had expected to see a girl in a party dress with blonde curls, perhaps, holding a teddy bear and smiling like a girl in an advertisement. But Helen wasn’t smiling. Her head rested on her hands and her dark, straight hair fell over her fingers. She had a thin face and brown eyes and looked serious, as though she was thinking something out.

  ‘Her mother’s dead and I guess I spoil her. But that business of no shocks is for real. So you must give me your word of honour that Carra Castle has no ghosts. If you can do that, the deal goes through.’

  It was one of the most difficult moments of Alex’s life. For a full minute, he couldn’t speak at all. Then he said: ‘How soon would you want the castle, Mr Hopgood?’

  ‘Well, the end of June, I reckon. I’d expect to take possession on July the First.’

  Alex looked him straight in the eyes. Then he said: ‘I swear to you, sir, that the castle you’ll be buying will be entirely free of ghosts.’

  Two

  The following morning Alex went to have a word with his Aunt Geraldine and told her what he meant to do. Then he pulled the bellrope made from the hair of a hundred MacCarpetdales. In the old days this would have meant that the servants were to come to the master of the house. Now it meant that Alex was on the way to the kitchen.

  ‘As you’ll have heard,’ said Alex to his staff, ‘Mr Hopgood wants to buy the castle. If he buys it, I’ll give each of you fifteen thousand pounds because you have worked so hard.’

  ‘Fifteen thousand pounds! Well, I never!’ Cook was quite pink with pleasure.

  ‘But Mr Hopgood has made one condition. He will only buy Carra if there are no ghosts.’

  The faces of the three servants fell. ‘Well, that’s that then, isn’t it,’ said the butler miserably. He’d been looking forward so much to joining his brother in Canada.

  ‘Nothing more to be said then, is there?’ said the housemaid with a sniff.

  ‘Yes, there is.’ Alex’s voice was strong and confident and it was hard to believe that he was only twelve years old. ‘By the time Mr Hopgood comes to live in the castle, there won’t be a ghost in the place.’

  The servants stared at him. ‘What are you going to do?’ asked the butler. ‘You’ll not be going to exorcise them, surely?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘No. That would be too cruel. I’m going to appeal to their better nature.’ And seeing that the housemaid did not understand what he meant, he said: ‘I’m going to ask them to be noble and go somewhere else. To be unselfish. Ghosts can be unselfish, I’m sure of it. Only you must promise me not to tell anyone who comes that Carra was once haunted.’

  The servants promised – but when Alex had gone they shook their heads.

  ‘Noble, indeed!’ said the butler. ‘Unselfish! That lot of wailers and skivers and dribblers! They’ll never budge. Exorcism is the only thing to shift them and Master Alex is too soft-hearted. Why, he’s proper daft about them, specially that dratted dog.’

  Alex himself was not as hopeful as he had pretended. But he had given his word to Mr Hopgood, so as soon as midnight struck and the bats had fluttered out to feed, he climbed to the top of the East Tower, sat down on an old chest and waited.

  He did not have to wait for long. Alex’s ghosts always knew when he was near. A sinister dark vapour crept through the room and it became very cold. Then a filmy, wavering blob of ectoplasm appeared … became clearer … became properly visible – and Krok the Viking stood before Alex.

  ‘Greetings, Oh Laird of Carra,’ boomed the warrior, rubbing his enormous hairy stomach where the chain shirt tickled him.

  He was a huge ghost, six foot four in his thonged sandals, with a thick curly beard which had been red when he was alive, and now was home to many of the woodlice and beetles who lived in the castle.

  ‘Greetings, Krok Fullbelly,’ said Alex politely, and sighed,
for the news he was bringing lay like a weight against his chest.

  Krok had haunted Carra when the castle was just a wattle and daub fort built to defend Britain from the Northmen. Fullbelly the Fearless they’d called him, and he’d been a brave and mighty soldier, leaping ashore from his long-boat and burning, pillaging and slaying with the best of them.

  But one day as he was pulling a captive woman out of her burning hut and dragging her towards his ship, he suddenly said: ‘Enough! I’m not going on any more raids. After this I’m staying at home.’

  It wasn’t the fighting Krok minded – over the years he’d lost an ear, three of his hairy toes and his right thumb and hardly noticed, because Vikings are like that. It was taking all those screaming women back that upset him. The way they kicked and shrieked and bit – and then when he got them back home, the way they lay about in his house, gossiping and having babies.

  But of course if you are a Viking you cannot say, ‘Enough!’ and get away with it. The king, who was called Harald Hardnose, ordered Krok to be put to death then and there, and his body thrown off Carra rock.

  After Krok came Miss Spinks, gliding through the closed window and dripping wet as usual, for she suffered from the Water Madness and was always throwing herself into the well or the duckpond or the moat. She had long hair and was dressed in grey like a Victorian governess (which was what she had been when she was alive) but from being so often in the water her feet had become webbed.

  Her story was a sad one. When she was living at Carra she had fallen hopelessly in love with Rory MacBuff whose children she had come to teach and one night, overcome by passion, she had chased him down the corridor with outstretched arms. He had jumped out of the window to get away from her and been killed. After this Miss Spinks drowned herself in the well and since ghosts often go on doing what they did when they died, she was almost never dry.

  The ghastly creaking of some infernal machine could now be heard. Squeak … creak … squeak … creak … and through the wall there came a wheelchair and sitting in it an old, old man.