The Haunting of Hiram

by Eva Ibbotson

  She curtseyed. Alex bowed. The other couples took their places. And as skilfully and happily as anyone in the room, Helen Hopgood began to dance!

  As the ghosts flew out of the cinema, they could see the queue for Raiders of the Glen shuffling into the building and everybody in it was gazing up at the floodlit castle.

  For all the watchers that night, Carra was a sight to remember, but for the ghosts who had lived there all their haunting lives it was almost more than they could bear.

  ‘Oh, how beautiful it looks!’ cried Miss Spinks – and the tears ran down her cheeks, making them even wetter than before.

  ‘Ah, listen to the pipers!’ said Uncle Louse. ‘There’s no music like it in the world.’

  ‘Look, there’s that set of armour I jumped out of to try and frighten the window cleaner to death in 1753,’ said Krok. They were level with the top storey of the West Tower now and could see into the rooms quite clearly.

  ‘And the chimney corner where I used to sit with Henny…’ (Uncle Louse’s teeth had not vanished when he did, but down below the people were far too busy to notice.)

  ‘Oh, the pain of leaving! Oh, the sorrow and sadness!’ Miss Spinks’s hair came down, and she beat her feet together. ‘I must go and drown myself

  –I must drown myself completely in the well.’

  Fortunately there were so many people milling round the courtyard that Miss Spinks couldn’t get at the well. All the same, it was agony just hanging there, unwanted and shut out, and when the poltergeist pressed her little face against the window and said, ‘I – Flossie wants to go home!’ even Krok felt a lump come to his throat.

  ‘We’ll just go down and have a look at the banqueting hall,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll go. There’s no point in making ourselves wretched. Here, Cyril, come to heel!’

  The ghosts drifted down till they were level with the great windows. There was a lull now in the dancing; some of the guests had gone off for more refreshments, others had gone down to the cloakrooms to freshen themselves up.

  ‘If only the boy could have seen the place like this,’ said Uncle Louse as they gazed hungrily at the familiar hall, the vaulted beams with their banners, the stone arches decked with greenery.

  ‘Goodbye for ever, dear, dear Carra,’ said Miss Spinks, kissing the window ledge with sad, wet lips.

  ‘Come!’ Krok took hold of her hair, for the Madness glittered badly in her eyes.

  The others turned to follow him – all except Cyril. The hellhound seemed to have gone off his head. His eyes bulged; he sniffed; he slobbered. He turned round and round in circles; he reared up and scratched the window with his little paws. Any minute now he would become visible, and what then?

  ‘Cyril! Here!’

  The dog took not the slightest notice. His tail whirred like a propeller and now he let out a series of high, shrill, desperately excited yaps.

  ‘Quiet!’ Krok looked anxiously down to where two policemen stood, protecting the entrance to the castle.

  But Miss Spinks, who had drifted back to help calm Cyril, now gave a shriek and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘A wraith!’ she cried. ‘A spirit has entered the hall. It is the spirit of dear, dear Alex! Though his body is far away, he appears before us.’

  The other ghosts crowded round the window. ‘That’s no spirit,’ said Uncle Louse hoarsely. ‘That’s the boy himself!’

  Cyril gave another high, excited volley of yaps.

  And in the hall, Alex looked up at the window. Anyone else would have seen only the night sky and the scudding clouds – but Alex saw much more than that.

  He gave a little cry and moved forward – and as he came towards them, the ghosts thought they had never seen anyone look so happy as he looked then.

  ‘I don’t believe it! I just don’t believe it! How did you get here? Oh, ghosts, I am so glad to be with you again.’

  Alex had excused himself to Mr Hopgood and Helen and hurried out, and now they were all in the car park of the Rex Cinema, crouched between a Cadillac and a Ford.

  There was so much to tell that they scarcely knew where to begin. Alex heard about the unkindness of the Dunloon ghosts and the crossing in the Queen Anne, and they realized that he must have flown over the ship on the way to Texas.

  ‘And I – Flossie saw the Big Blob,’ said the poltergeist for the third time, tugging at Alex’s sleeve.

  Strangest of all was that they had been so close to each other for three months and never known.

  ‘Anyway, one thing is certain,’ said Alex when they had told each other everything, ‘and that is that we’re not going to be separated, ever again. I’m staying here another fortnight and when I go home you’re coming with me. Maybe you could become school ghosts during the term, and in the holidays we’ll all be together at Sethsay. Even roughing it a bit would be better than being parted.’

  The ghosts were overjoyed. To think they were going to be with their own dear Laird again and in their own country! No spooks called Big Red Knucklebone, no loneliness, no exile….

  ‘Can you manage in the cinema till then?’ asked Alex. ‘I know Helen wouldn’t be frightened of you, but Mr Hopgood just won’t see sense about that and it’s not worth making a fuss now.’

  ‘Of course we can,’ said Krok. ‘It’s not such a bad place and perhaps our friend in the mine may become glorious before we leave.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Alex, who’d been very interested in the Hand’s story. ‘They’re really something, those Hands of Glory. I’ve read about them.’

  Miss Spinks then enquired about Helen Hopgood. ‘Was she the … well covered one with the tartan ribbons or the little thin one in the white dress?’

  ‘Definitely the one in the white dress,’ said Alex, and the ghosts were very relieved. They had liked the look of Helen as much as they had not liked the look of the other girl.

  But Flossie was feeling neglected. She was obviously the most important person there and Alex had not heard nearly all her adventures.

  ‘I – Flossie did see a lady with coming-off bosoms,’ she said, putting a hand on Alex’s arm.

  ‘Quiet, Flossie! How can you start that rude talk again when dear Alex is restored to us?’ said Miss Spinks.

  The poltergeist scowled. ‘I – Flossie did so see her. First she was a lady on the boat and played nasty music and then she was a man with hairy knees and dug holes in the ground. Here he did, right in the castle.’

  ‘Flossie, if you don’t stop—’

  But the Viking was frowning. ‘Wait! I’ve just remembered something. It was from the Zugorsky Trio that I heard that Carra was to be rebuilt. They were standing by the cabin window….’ Krok rubbed his forehead, trying to recall what he had heard. ‘Madame Zugorsky was very large with broad shoulders … perhaps the child is right; she could have been a man. They spoke about something being a walkover once the Hopgoods had moved. I didn’t take much notice at the time, but now I think of it, they sounded as though they were up to no good. There was a woman with long, black hair – though I suppose it might have been a wig. She had a gold locket she kept pawing….’

  ‘Could they be planning to steal something from the castle?’ suggested Uncle Louse. ‘Mr Hopgood’s paintings, or his money?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Alex’s voice was very low. ‘Look, I must get back now – I’ll come and find you in the cinema tomorrow and then we’ll make plans.’

  They said goodbye and Alex crossed the car park, showed his pass to the policeman at the gates and entered the castle. He had been walking very fast, but now he began to run. If thieves were after Mr Hopgood’s paintings or his money, he should be warned. If that was what they were after… If …

  I’m being ridiculous, thought Alex. In a minute I’ll see Helen with her wreath a bit skew whiff from dancing so hard.

  He entered the ballroom, furious with himself because of the way his heart was thumping – and at once Mr Hopgood hurried over.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Al
ex,’ he said. ‘But where’s Helen? Surely she’s with you?’

  Nineteen

  It was dark. Pitch dark and terribly cold. There was a black vault above her from which something icy dripped on to a place just behind her head. Her hands were bound and her wrists were sore and chafed. She was still wearing her white dress, but she’d been roughly bundled into some sort of blanket. Even so, the chill seemed to strike right in to her bones.

  Where can I be? thought Helen. What has happened? She tried to think back. When she’d finished dancing with Alex, she’d gone down to the cloakroom to tidy her hair … only something was wrong with the light switch; it wouldn’t go on. Then someone had come forward … a woman in a dark coat. She’d thought the woman was trying to help her, but almost at once she’d felt a jab in her arm. And after that, nothing …. She could remember nothing.

  Helen tried to move, but the ropes which bound her only bit harder into her wrists. She seemed to be in a kind of cave, a recess in the side of a tunnel hollowed out of bare rock. A railway tunnel? As her eyes became more used to the dark, she could make out some rails, but they were too small for a proper train.

  Oh, God, thought Helen, what has happened? Who wants to harm me? Am I to be killed?

  She tried to call out, but the drug she’d been given was still making her drowsy and only a faint mewing sound, like that of a wounded bird, came from her lips. Even so, it brought someone. Footsteps could be heard coming along the tunnel and a torch was flashed cruelly into her eyes.

  ‘You’re awake, are you?’

  Helen gasped. The face that bent over her was distorted by a stocking mask, but the outlines of the gun pressed in to her ribs was clear enough.

  ‘Where am I?’ Helen tried very hard to hold her voice steady, but it wavered pitifully.

  ‘Never mind where you are,’ blustered Ratty. ‘You’ll stay here till your father’s paid five million dollars – and you’d better not move or make a fuss, or it’ll be the worse for you.’

  ‘Oh, not seriously the worse.’ Helen had not heard the second person approach – a woman whose face, too, was blurred by a mask, but whose oily voice seemed familiar. ‘Perhaps we might remove one ear and send it to your father. Not both ears, just one.’ She put down her lamp and took out a pearlhandled knife which she moved up and down, getting closer and closer to Helen’s cheek. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ purred Adolfa. ‘The pearls are real – and it’s so sharp. There’s no messy sawing with a knife like that. But you’re going to be good, I’m sure. All little girls are fond of their ears; it’s only natural.’

  She moved away down the tunnel and the man followed. Left alone in the dark, Helen began to feel a fear so terrible that she thought it would kill her. I can’t bear it, she thought; I can’t, I can’t.

  Only I must bear it. I must. I must keep absolutely calm and quiet and then perhaps there will be something I can do. I must think about nice things. Not about my father; he’ll be so wretched…. Not about my mother, either – I don’t know if people can really look down from heaven, but I expect it’s not as simple as that.

  But Alex … yes, I can think about Alex…. And Patagonia…. I’ll think about the boat we’re going to go in through the fjords … a blue boat with a red sail, but not only a sail, of course – that would be silly. We must have an outboard motor as well. I’ll think about the camp we’re going to make at the foot of the mountains and the fish we’re going to grill over the fire.

  People who are going to Patagonia don’t scream because they’re lying bound in a tunnel. Nothing has happened yet … my wrists don’t really hurt. Not really…

  I can think about the ponies we’re going to ride up into the forest. They’ll be shaggy and strong and a bit wild … or maybe they’ll be mules with twitchy ears. There’ll be wild deer and lots of butterflies … and then we’ll come to the cave where they found the sloth hairs in 1902…

  A cave in Patagonia would be as dark as this, and as cold. The weather’s very bad in Patagonia. Alex would say it was good practice being imprisoned here like this. That’s what I must think about, what good practice this is.

  From far down the tunnel there came the sound of the dreadful woman’s sudden laughter.

  Helen began to shiver uncontrollably and tears welled up under her eyelids.

  ‘I won’t cry,’ she said to herself, bringing her teeth down hard on her lower lip. ‘But, oh, please, God, don’t let them cut off my ear!’

  They had searched the castle from top to bottom: the armoury, the gallery, the dungeons, the battlements, calling and calling. The guests had joined in, shouting ‘Coo-ee!’ or ‘Helen, where are you?’ –at first quite light-heartedly, then getting more and more worried and desperate. The pipers in their kilts had joined in the search, and the waiters and the cloakroom attendants, and of course the grimfaced security men.

  After an hour, no one pretended any more. Helen Hopgood had vanished.

  Now Mr Hopgood lay on a couch in the library surrounded by police officers. His face was grey and covered in a film of sweat. A doctor had been called, but Mr Hopgood wouldn’t take any pills to make him calmer or even let the doctor feel his pulse.

  ‘Find her … For God’s sake, find her,’ was all he could say.

  ‘We’ll find her, sir,’ said the young lieutenant. ‘We’ve got thirty men now searching every stick and stone, and a pack of tracker dogs. We’ll find her for sure.’

  But he was not as hopeful as he pretended. That the Hopgood girl could be snatched from under the very noses of the security men who thronged the castle meant that the gang who’d done the job were very smart indeed.

  The waiting was terrible. Minute by minute, the wretched night crawled past. The guests had left; the rooms were deserted. In the courtyard, only the police with their vans and searchlights and walkietalkies remained.

  If only I hadn’t left Helen when I saw the ghosts, thought Alex, sitting hunched up in the window seat. If only I’d taken her with me. It’s all my fault.

  He looked down to see a police car coming over the drawbridge and a few moments later, two detectives came hurrying in.

  ‘There’s news, sir! We’ve found these in a wood behind the Three Star Ranch. Could you identify them as belonging to your daughter?’

  Mr Hopgood looked up, gasped, and clutched his heart – and it was Alex who answered.

  ‘Yes, those are Helen’s.’

  But he, too, had to turn away and swallow the lump that had come up in his throat. Helen’s wreath of rosebuds had been trampled in the dust; only a few faded flowers were left, and the sash from her dress had been savagely torn.

  ‘The wreath was quite close to the road and the sash was half a mile away towards San Fernando. There’s no doubt she’s being held up in the hills somewhere.’

  ‘We’ll have the helicopters out as soon as it’s light and the dogs are there already, along with every man we’ve got,’ said the second detective. ‘But we were wondering if you felt like coming along with us, sir? You might recognize something else your daughter wore. A pin or a brooch?’

  Mr Hopgood struggled to his feet. ‘Yes … yes…. Of course I’ll come.’

  The officer turned to Alex. ‘What about you?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I’ll stay.’

  Only why did I say that, he asked himself, left alone in the library. What’s the point of staying here when it’s clear that Helen’s miles away? And why do I keep on thinking about what Flossie said. ‘First she was a lady … and then he was a man and dug holes in the castle.’

  What holes? The holes for the dungeons? But the dungeons led nowhere – it wasn’t as though Carra had a secret passage. And Helen’s wreath had been found behind the Three Star Ranch.

  Yet even as he was thinking this, Alex found himself on the stone staircase that led underground.

  Back in Scotland there would have been cheerful rats to squeak and scamper across his shoes, but Mr Hopgood had drawn the line at rats and it was as quiet
as the grave.

  How often he’d played down here with the ghosts, swinging on the iron hoops that the prisoners had been chained to, or pretending to hide in the old broom cupboard which the wife of the eighth MacBuff had built when the dungeons were no longer used to starve prisoners to death, but were just used to store things. It had been splendid for playing sardines, that cupboard; it was big enough for him to lie down and then all the ghosts would come one by one. Except that Flossie always squeaked and gave the game away.

  He wandered over and opened it. In Carra there’d been nothing much in it except old buckets and brushes and coils of rope, but now there were overalls hanging on hooks at the back and tins of paint and a Hoover. No one had hoovered at Carra – the rats wouldn’t have stood for it.

  Alex stepped into the cupboard, remembering the familiar smell of mildew and dust.

  Yes, it was all just as it was… except that there was a draught round his ankles which was odd because the walls there were three feet thick – and the draught came from the back. From the solid back wall of the cupboard….

  Alex’s heart began to pound. He felt with his hands along the wood.

  Nothing. It was just an old slab of wood and now he had a splinter as well. He was about to turn away when his fingers came up against something concealed behind one of the overalls. A handle….

  Alex pulled … pulled again … and stumbled backwards as the wall of the cupboard opened like a door.

  Facing him was a narrow, freshly dug tunnel which bent almost at once to the left.

  Forgetting common sense, forgetting everything except that he might find Helen, Alex went forward into the dark.

  The ghosts in the cinema were having a splendid time. Raiders of the Glen was about two rival clansmen who murdered each other in all sorts of interesting ways – sometimes cutting each other down with swords, sometimes leaping at each other from trees and fastening their legs round each other’s throats, and sometimes boring holes in each other’s boats so that they drowned. And The Monster of the Loch, which came next, was even better.