For Liz
S. T.
For my grandparents,
Stuart and Sheila
N.K.
Maximilian peered over the top of Sylvia’s bag and miaowed his “can I come out now?” miaow.
“Not yet, old thing,” hissed Sylvia. “Wait till the lights go down.”
Maximilian grumbled a little. Being crammed into Sylvia’s handbag, which was stuffed with lip glosses, mirrors and tram tickets, was not the best thing for his fur. He was sure that his wonderful tail would be most out of sorts by the time he was permitted to climb on to Sylvia’s lap. Still, he had not wished to miss this evening. For one week only “the Great Furigo” was performing his mind-bending illusions at the Oswald Theatre, and Maximilian had been as eager as Sylvia and Agnes to see the tricks that had been astounding all of London. Monsieur Lavroche had arranged for the entire Theatre Royal company to go to the magician’s last night as a treat, and they had spoken of little else for weeks.
The lights dipped and Sylvia tickled the top of Maximilian’s head. He sneaked out of the bag, padded around on her lap till she hissed at him to keep still and then settled down to watch the show.
And what a show it was! The Great Furigo lived up to his name. He produced rabbits and bunches of flowers from his gleaming top hat. His charming assistant, decked in feathers and spangles, was cut in half in front of the audience’s astonished eyes and then magically reassembled. The tip of Maximilian’s tail tingled as he tried to work out how each trick was done. He wished very much that Oscar was here, and he could not wait to get back to the Theatre Royal and talk it all over with his old friend.
During the interval Sylvia sneaked him titbits from her ice cream. Agnes was gushing over the last illusion, where Furigo had made his assistant hover in mid-air while he passed hoops around her.
“It’s just a trick, Agnes. A very clever one, but still a trick,” Sylvia said airily, licking the last of her ice cream from the spoon and ignoring Maximilian’s “I could possibly manage just a little more” miaow.
“Well, how did he do it then? Answer me that, miss clever clogs,” Agnes retorted. “I think it’s magic!”
Sylvia tickled the top of Maximilian’s head. “You could tell us, couldn’t you, Max?” she said. “I bet you’ve got it all figured out already.”
The auditorium filled up once more and Furigo walked on to the stage in front of the theatre’s blood-red curtain.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the grand finale of this evening’s entertainment,” he said. “Let us take you on a journey of the imagination, to a world where anything is possible.” He waved a hand in a peculiar twisting gesture, all five fingers pointing to the ceiling, and the curtain flew up to reveal a moonlit graveyard. In a tree at the back of the stage an owl hooted.
“Leave the theatre now if you are of a nervous disposition,” Furigo continued. “For tonight we are going to attempt the impossible. We are going to summon and capture a ghost.”
At this last word the audience gasped. Agnes clutched Sylvia’s arm so hard that she jumped in alarm and Maximilian had to dig his claws in to prevent himself from being pitched forwards on to the floor of the theatre.
The magician drew close to one of the gravestones. Leaning towards the stone he reached out his arms, his fingers spread wide. Slowly he began to draw his hands back as if beckoning something out of the grave and within seconds smoke began to rise from the stage.
Sylvia snorted. “A simple trick,” she hissed. “You just need a little hot water to run on to some ice. We used that one in the fairy ballet last season.”
Agnes pinched her. “Shush! You’re ruining it.”
“Really, Agnes, you’re awfully foolish. It’s just a tr…” Sylvia’s voice trailed away. Up on the stage something was rising from the gravestone: a shimmering figure in white. The music from the orchestra pit grew louder and louder. The figure swayed from side to side, rose into the air and began to float towards the audience, skeletal hands clawing at the air. A rasping screech filled the theatre, followed by deep, wailing moans. Maximilian glanced at Agnes, who had slunk down in her seat and covered her face with her hands. He leaned across to give her hand a reassuring pat with his paw. Poor Agnes. She was so terribly easy to frighten. At least he could rely on Sylvia to behave sensibly.
But before he could reach Agnes, he found himself pulled back into Sylvia’s arms as even she gave a terrified whimper.
The Great Furigo called out, “Stop, spirit! I command you, go back to the realm from whence you came!” He threw his hands up in the air. A thunderclap echoed around the theatre. A flash lit up the stage and the spirit was gone.
There was a moment’s silence, then the entire theatre erupted in applause.
Back at the Theatre Royal, Monsieur Lavroche had arranged for refreshments to be laid on. Maximilian perched on the stage, eyes closed, as the theatre company milled around him, enjoying a lavish buffet and chattering about how wonderful the show had been. In his head Maximilian waved a paw as Sylvia spun into the air and vanished. The audience applauded and, with a flick of his tail, there was a flash of light and—
“Max, old thing, out of the way. I almost tripped over you,” muttered Agnes, her mouth full of sausage roll. Maximilian shook a flurry of crumbs off his tail and tutted. It was so like a human to complain that it was he who was in the way. He gave her his “perhaps you should watch where you are going” miaow, but Agnes had dashed over to join the crowd gathering around Monsieur Lavroche. Maximilian saw Mrs Garland, the theatre’s costume mistress, chatting with Miss Julier, the musical director. Monsieur Lavroche picked up a glass and tapped it with a silver pastry fork, making it ring out in the echoing space of the auditorium. The company fell silent and waited. Monsieur Lavroche gave a little cough and tugged at his waistcoat.
“As you will know,” he began, “our Christmas show will not begin until the second week of December this year, so we have a little time in hand for an additional … project.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a cream envelope from which hung an elaborate-looking wax seal.
“I have here a letter from Lord Fawley. He has asked us to prepare and perform a unique entertainment for his daughter, Arabella, for the occasion of her eighteenth birthday. We will be his guests for a week at Fawley Castle in Sussex, and will be the main entertainers at the masked birthday ball on Halloween night.”
The company broke out into excited chatter. Agnes grasped Sylvia’s arm.
“How thrilling,” Agnes said. “A masked ball in a castle, and at Halloween. How creepy!”
Sylvia rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t start all that nonsense about ghosts again.”
Agnes ignored her. “But think, Sylvia,” she breathed, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “An old estate out in the country. There are bound to be towers, maybe even a dungeon. Monsieur Lavroche said Fawley Castle.”
“Every threepenny country house calls itself a castle nowadays, you ninny,” scoffed Sylvia. “I’m sure it will be quite modern and very comfortable.”
“And I’m sure it will be cold and draughty and probably haunted,” said Agnes. She scooped Maximilian up into her arms and looked deep into his eyes. “You wait! Max will be able to sense it. Animals know. It’s in their whiskers, isn’t it, Max?”
Maximilian gave her a miaow that was intended to convey both deep intelligence and scepticism at the very idea of ghosts. Agnes was getting rather silly about them and she would only be worse once she was in a damp and draughty castle.
Maximilian gave a shudder as an awful thought struck him. There would be no need for him out in the countryside. Monsieur Lavroche would probably want him to stay in the theatre, carrying on his work
as Theatre Royal Mouser. Or would he be sent away to the “Cat and Kitten Kennels” that he had heard of from his friend Oscar, where cats were left by their owners and sometimes never collected? He looked at Agnes and gave out a mournful little “I am coming too, aren’t I?” miaow, but she just deposited him on the floor and dragged Sylvia off to quiz Monsieur Lavroche about Fawley Castle, leaving Maximilian on his own in the middle of the stage.
They worked hard over the next month to put together a show to be performed for one night only for Arabella Fawley. At the end of the month the company gathered outside the theatre, where Lord Fawley had instructed twelve cars to collect them for the journey to Sussex. They were surrounded by boxes of costumes and make-up and props, and Mrs Garland ran from case to case, checking that they were securely locked and ticking them off in a small cloisonné notebook.
Maximilian sat by the edge of the road, trying to keep his tail out of the gutter. After much begging from Sylvia and Agnes, Monsieur Lavroche had agreed that Maximilian could come with them, but Maximilian was taking no chances that he might be left behind in all the excitement. Sylvia was inclined to be forgetful and she had already dashed back into the theatre to collect her favourite wrap, her mother-of-pearl hairclips and a book she was halfway through reading.
Maximilian cast an eye up to the roof of the theatre, where Oscar often slept. How he wished that Oscar would come to Sussex with them too. It would be much more fun to be out in the country with his best friend. Oscar told the most entertaining stories in the world, mostly tall tales about how he lost his eye, and Maximilian had been looking forward to exploring the castle with him. Sylvia and Agnes were lovely, of course, but till they learned Cat, conversations would always be a little one-sided.
At twelve fifteen precisely, a smart fleet of liquorice-black cars swept up to the doors of the theatre. Monsieur Lavroche helped Mrs Garland into the first one while the rest of the company dashed to get good seats. Agnes and Sylvia found themselves lucky to have a car to themselves and climbed in, jostling one another for space on the wide leather seat. Maximilian gave out a little “mrow” of annoyance and jumped in after them.
“Sorry, Max,” Sylvia said, tickling him behind his ear. “We wouldn’t really have forgotten you, honest.”
Maximilian stuck his chin in the air and looked out of the window. He might decide to forgive them after his afternoon snack, he supposed.
Agnes slid the battered case that held her favourite hat under their seat and, turning to Sylvia, returned to her favourite topic of whether the castle was haunted. Maximilian pressed his face to the window and peered out at the theatre but Oscar did not appear, dashing down the street, his one eye sparkling in the winter sun. Maximilian miaowed a little disappointed miaow and, squeezing himself between Agnes and Sylvia, he dropped his head on to his paws and sighed.
He woke to the sound of Agnes and Sylvia quarrelling. Outside, it was a beautiful night and the shadows of trees, lit by a full moon, flashed by them on each side.
“Please close that window, Agnes!” Sylvia scolded. “It’s freezing in here.”
Agnes, leaning half out of the window, looked back and pulled a face.
“I want to see the castle,” she complained. Her eyes grew large and bright in the moonlight. “It’s a full moon. I’ll bet the ghosts are all out tonight.”
Maximilian miaowed his “that’s werewolves” miaow, but Agnes ignored him. He shivered and felt his hair standing on end, not because he was nervous but because he was cold. Agnes was being particularly silly.
“Agnes,” began Sylvia, but her voice died away as an eerie scratching broke the silence of the night. Sylvia looked up at the roof of the car and shuddered. For a few moments all was quiet, but then the scratching grew louder. Agnes pulled her head back into the cab and threw herself on to the seat next to Sylvia.
“I told you there were ghosts,” she whimpered.
Sylvia clutched her hand and said nothing, but Maximilian could see that even she was frightened. There was another scratch and the car lurched to one side, making both girls scream, and Agnes’s hatbox slid out from under the seat and tumbled across the cab. The lid flew off and a dark shadow rolled out. One green orb glinted in the moonlight. Maximilian gasped. It was Oscar!
Agnes screeched. She drew her feet up on to the seat and grabbed at Sylvia’s arm, making Sylvia cry out with pain. Then she kicked out at Oscar. He flinched and leapt out of the way just as the car made a great lurch to the side. Oscar flew to the open window, landing precariously on the slender door. Maximilian followed, miaowing at Agnes “don’t panic” and “it’s only Oscar”. As the car rounded a corner, Maximilian felt himself falling backwards. He flicked his tail to the side to try to keep his balance, but it was no match for his rather portly bottom and, with a miaow of panic, he and Oscar tumbled out of the car window towards the ground, landing in a rolling muddy heap in the dark. Maximilian saw Sylvia’s face at the window, heard his name shouted in alarm on the cold night air, but in seconds they were far away. The fleet of cars rushed past them, throwing dust up into the air, and a few moments later Maximilian and Oscar were alone in the dark as Monsieur Lavroche’s company sped on to Fawley Castle.
The three things Maximilian hated most were being hungry, dirty and cold, in precisely that order. At the moment that he and Oscar saw the lights of the final car disappear into the night, he found to his dismay that he was dirty, cold and hungry all at once. His beautiful fluffy tail was covered in mud, a beetle had rudely crawled on to his nose, and his tummy was making the sort of noises that it liked to make when he hadn’t had any salmon for over an hour. He stared into the dark at where the cars had been, and miaowed a “come back!” miaow that echoed around the night.
Beside him, Oscar stretched and sniffed the air. “Vole,” he muttered. “A little like mouse, but more of a delicacy.”
Maximilian’s tummy gave a groan.
“Why didn’t they stop?” he wailed.
“Humans are not very good at quick thinking,” Oscar said. “They’ll be at the castle gates before it occurs to any of them to stop panicking and simply ask the driver to stop and wait for you. We’ll just have to walk.”
Maximilian’s tummy groaned again. The trees seemed to go on forever and there was no sign of the castle lights. If only Oscar hadn’t escaped from the hatbox!
They set off down the road, the shadows creeping around them. When the moon was out, the trees rose above them, their long branches entwining round one another like nests of snakes. When the moon was covered by a passing cloud, the night closed in and all that Maximilian could see was the glinting stars above. He had never noticed before how quiet the night-time was. In London there was always noise, even when the theatre shut its doors for the night. He and Oscar would sit up on the roofs and listen to the bustle of traffic and nightclubs and restaurants far below, the sounds blurring into one comforting buzz of life. Out here, in the dark silence of the night, every tiny sound was amplified. The snap of a twig as a shrew ran over it echoed like a falling tree. The squeak of a mouse shrieked in his ears. Maximilian began to dread the moments when the moonlight disappeared. He walked a little closer to Oscar than usual, glad that his friend was here.
As they neared the top of a hill, a cloud cut across the moon, making the shadows that surrounded them dance. Maximilian jumped as something pale and shimmering swooped down from the trees above and dived into the undergrowth.
“It’s just an owl,” he told himself, hoping that Oscar had not noticed how jumpy he was getting. It was all Agnes’s fault, with that silly talk about ghosts.
Ahead of him, Oscar had paused and was staring into the distance. Maximilian joined him and together they gazed down a tree-lined avenue to a pair of intricately wrought gates rising high above them. Beyond the gates was the shadow of a vast house. Towers twisted into the night sky at either end and lights flickered in dozens of windows. The moonlight settled on the stonework, highlighting great marble lions st
anding by an archway at the front of the house, and picking out strange carvings set into the roof of monsters screaming and eagles taking flight. It was Fawley Castle.
Maximilian felt his heart leap, followed by his tummy. He was just a few hundred cat leaps away from a bite of supper and a quiet nap. Flicking his tail with joy, he bounded forwards and was halfway down the avenue when a strange sound filled the night, a deep droning like the heavy buzzing of a bee but much, much louder. Maximilian looked back. Oscar was hunkered down, scanning the sky and ready to spring at whatever was about to attack them. Maximilian crouched as well and peered into the night.
The droning grew louder and from behind a low cloud a creature emerged. It had wide wings that glinted in the moonlight and one dazzling eye, flooding the ground below with light.
Maximilian’s fur stood on end. He saw Oscar falter and stumble back a little as the creature dived down towards them. The drone became a clattering scream in his ears. The light of its eye blinded him.
And in seconds it had zoomed over them, leaving a choking stream of smoke in its wake. As it flew beneath the trees the lower branches caught at its wings and a horrible scraping sound ripped through the air. Oscar dashed to Maximilian’s side.
“It’s a plane!” he cried. “It’s just a plane. What a fool, flying so close to the ground. He could have crashed.”
Maximilian had never seen a plane, though Sylvia had shown him many newspaper photos of Lady Hawksmere, who was said to be planning to cross the Mediterranean on her own in the spring and who Sylvia thought was the bravest woman on earth. Far away from them, the plane soared over the gates that led to the castle. It tilted, turning gracefully in the air, before zooming out of sight to the east, leaving the night as calm and quiet as it had been only a few moments before. Maximilian padded over to one of the tree branches that had broken off as the wings of the plane scraped underneath them.
The Phantom Portrait Page 1
