Return to Groosham Grange (5 page)

“What about it?” David knew he was being deliberately rude, but he was still angry about what had happened.

Mr. Helliwell sighed. The light was reflecting off the huge dome of his head and his round, gray eyes seemed troubled. “I know you’re upset,” he said. “But there’s something I have to tell you. I don’t believe it was you who opened the safe.”

“What?” David felt a surge of excitement.

“I was as surprised as anyone to find you in that room,” the teacher went on. “Let me explain. I was making my rounds when I saw someone come down the stairs. It was dark, so I didn’t see who it was. But I could have sworn they had fair hair, lighter than yours.”

Fair hair. That was Vincent. It had to be.

“I saw them go into the heads’ study, and that was when I went to get Mr. Fitch and Mr. Teagle.” Mr. Helliwell paused. “Whoever was inside the study had left the door half open. I’d swear to that. Only, when we got back the door was closed. And
you
were inside.”

“I didn’t open the safe,” David said. Now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. “Someone set me up. They wanted me to be found there. They knew you’d gone for the heads. And they must have slipped out just before I arrived.”

“Someone . . . ?” Mr. Helliwell frowned. “Do you have any idea who?”

For a moment David was tempted to name Vincent King. But that wasn’t the way he did things. He shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell the heads what you’d seen?” he asked.

Mr. Helliwell shrugged. “At the time it seemed an open-and-shut case. It was only afterward . . .” He stroked his chin. “Even now I’m not sure. I suppose I believe you. But it’s your word against . . .”

. . . against Vincent’s. David nodded. The trap had been too well prepared.

Mr. Helliwell pulled a pocket watch from his waist-coat pocket and looked at it. “It’s almost eleven o’clock,” he said. He reached out and put a firm, heavy hand on David’s shoulder. “But if you have any more problems, you come to me. Maybe I can help.”

“Thank you.” David turned and hurried back down the passageway. He was feeling ten times more confident than an hour before. He had let Vincent beat him once. There wouldn’t be a second time.

He would take the exam and he would come in first. And the Unholy Grail would be his.

It was as easy as that.

As soon as David had run his eyes over the questions, he knew he was going to be all right. He had even reviewed the Great Plague a few nights before and the rest of the exam was just as straightforward.

So he was smiling when the clock struck one and Mr. Helliwell called time. While everyone else remained in their seats, Vincent and another boy who had been sitting in the front row got up and started collecting the papers. It was Vincent who came over to David’s desk. As he handed his answers over, David lifted his head and allowed his eyes to lock with Vincent’s. He didn’t say anything, but he wanted the other boy to know.
I got every question right. Nothing can stop me now.

Mr. Helliwell dropped the papers into his leather bag and everyone was allowed to leave. Once they were back out in the open air, David caught up with Jill. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun felt warm on his neck after the chill of the cave.

“How did it go?” he asked.

Jill grimaced. “Awful. What on earth is thinato mania?”

“Thanatomania. It’s a sort of multiple curse,” David explained. “It was when a witch wanted to hurt a whole town or village instead of just one person.” He shuddered. “I don’t know why they teach us about things like that. It’s not as if we’d ever want to curse anyone.”

“No,” Jill agreed. “But most of the stuff you learn at school you never actually use. You just have to know about it, that’s all.” She took his arm. “So how did you do?”

David smiled. “It was easy.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Jill looked away. In the distance, Vincent was walking off on his own toward the East Tower. He was smiling and there was a spring in his step. “I wouldn’t count your chickens too soon,” she said. “There goes Vincent. And he looks pretty confident too.”

 

 

David remembered her words over the next few days. There were more classes, but with the final exam over, the standings list was officially closed. Everything now hinged on Advanced Cursing, and although David was sure of himself, although he pretended he wasn’t thinking about it, he still found himself hanging around the bulletin board near the heads’ study where the results would eventually be posted.

And he was there one evening when Mr. Kilgraw, the assistant headmaster, appeared, a sheet of paper in one hand and a thumbtack in the other. David felt his heartbeat quicken. There was a lump in his throat and a tingling in the palms of his hands. Nobody else was around. He would be the first to know the results.

Forcing himself not to run, he went over to the bulletin board. Mr. Kilgraw gave him a deathly smile. “Good evening, David.”

“Good evening, sir.” Why didn’t Mr. Kilgraw say anything? Why didn’t he congratulate David on coming in first, on winning the Unholy Grail? With difficulty, he forced his eyes up to take in the bulletin board. And there it was:

But the name on the top was not his own.

Linda James, the girl who had been disintegrated by Mrs. Windergast, was first.

David blinked. What about the name underneath her?

William Rufus had come in second.

Then Jeffrey Joseph.

It wasn’t possible.

“A very disappointing result for you, David.” Mr. Kilgraw was talking, but David hardly heard him. He was panicking now. The typed letters on the list were blurring into one another as he searched through them for his name. There was Vincent, in ninth place with sixty-eight points. And there he was, two places below . . . eleventh! He had scored only sixty-five. It was impossible!

“Very disappointing,” Mr. Kilgraw said, but there was something strange in his voice. It was as soft and as menacing as ever, but there was something else. Was he pleased?

Eleventh . . . David felt numb. He tried to work out where it left him on the standings list. Linda had scored seventy-six points. He was eleven behind her, three behind Vincent. He had lost the Grail. He must have.

“I was quite surprised,” Mr. Kilgraw went on. “I would have thought you would have known the meaning of
thanatomania
.”

“Thanato . . . ?” David’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. He turned to Mr. Kilgraw. He could hear footsteps approaching. News had gotten out that the results were there. Soon there would be a crowd. “But I
do
know,” David said. “I wrote it down . . .”

Mr. Kilgraw shook his head with a sad smile. “I marked the papers myself,” he said. “You didn’t even tackle the question.”

“But . . . I did! I got it right!”

“No, David. It was Question Three. I must say, you got everything else right. But I’m afraid you lost thirty-five points on that one. You didn’t hand in an answer.”

And then David remembered. Vincent had collected the papers. He had handed them to Vincent. And following the instructions at the top of the exam, each question had been answered on a separate sheet. It would have been simple for Vincent to slip one of the pages out. David had been so confident, so sure of himself, that he hadn’t even thought of it. But that must have been what had happened. That was the only possibility.

There were about twenty or thirty people milling around the bulletin board now, struggling to get closer, calling out names and numbers. David heard his own name called out. Eleventh with sixty-five points.

“That means he’s tied for first,” somebody shouted. “He and Vincent King are tied for first.”

“So who gets the Unholy Grail?”

Everybody was chattering around him. Feeling sick and confused, David pushed his way through the crowd and ran off, ignoring Jill and the others who were calling after him.

There was no moon that night. As if to add to the darkness, a mist had rolled in from the sea, slithering over the damp earth and curling up against the walls of Groosham Grange. Everything was silent. Even Gregor—sound asleep on one of the tombstones in the cemetery—was actually making no sound. Normally he snored. Tonight he was still.

Nobody heard the door creak open to one side of the school. Nobody saw a figure step out into the night and make its way over the moss and the soil toward the East Tower. A second door opened and closed. Inside the tower, a light flickered on.

But nobody saw the lantern as it turned around and around on itself, being carried ever higher up the spiral staircase that led to the battlements. A bloated spider scuttled out of the way, just managing to avoid the heel of a black leather shoe that pounded down on the concrete step. A rat arched its back in a corner, fearful of the unaccustomed light. But no human eye was open. No human ear heard the thud, thud, thud of footsteps climbing the stairs.

The secret agent reached a circular room at the top of the tower, its eight narrow windows open to the night. To one side there was a table, some paper and what looked like a collection of boxes. From inside the boxes came the sound of flapping and a strange, high-pitched squeak. The agent sat down and drew one of the sheets of paper forward. And began to write:

Once again there was no signature at the bottom of the page. The agent scrawled a single
X
, then folded the letter carefully and reached into one of the boxes. It wasn’t actually a box but a cage. His hand came out again holding something that looked like a scrap of torn leather except that it was alive, jerking and squealing. The agent attached the message to the creature’s leg, then carried it over to the window.

“Off you go.” The words were a soft whisper in the darkness.

A brief flurry. A last cry. And then the message was gone, carried off into the swirling night.

I
t’s a very unusual situation,” Mr. Fitch said. “We have a tie.”

“David Eliot and Vincent King,” Mr. Teagle agreed. “Both have six hundred and sixty-six points.”

“It’s a bit of a nuisance,” Mr. Fitch remarked peevishly. What are we going to do?”

Both men—or rather, both heads—looked around the table. The two of them were in the staff room, sitting in a single, high-backed chair. It was midday. Arranged around the table in front of them were Mr. Kilgraw, Mr. Helliwell, Mr. Creer, Mrs. Windergast, Monsieur Leloup and the oldest teacher in the school (by several centuries), Miss Pedicure. Miss Pedicure taught English, although at the start of her career this had been a bit of a problem as English hadn’t been invented. She was now so frail and wrinkled that everyone would stop and stare whenever she sneezed, afraid that the effort might cause her to disintegrate.

Mr. Kilgraw grimaced, for a moment revealing two razor-sharp vampire teeth. There was a glass of red liquid on the table in front of him that might have been wine, but probably wasn’t. “Is it not a tradition,” he inquired, “in this circumstance to set some sort of trial? A tiebreaker?”

“What sort of trial do you have in mind?” Mrs. Windergast asked.

Mr. Kilgraw waved a languid hand. Because it was the middle of the day, the curtains in the room had been drawn for him, but enough of the light was filtering through to make him even paler than usual. “It will have to take place off the island,” he said. “I would suggest London.”

“Why London?” Miss Pedicure demanded.