Shiverton Hall, the Creeper (16 page)

Alan groped for a meaning for a moment.

‘Ever been in a fire?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Should we do the crystal ball instead, Alan?’ Arthur sighed.

‘It is not Alan!’ Alan snapped. ‘It’s Xanadu.’

‘All right, Xanadu, shall we do the crystal ball instead? You don’t seem to be having much luck with the cards.’

‘Well, all right,’ Alan sulked, and lifted the crystal ball on to the table.

‘I have to light the candles first,’ he said, putting a match to a few vanilla-scented tea lights.

‘Now,’ Alan said, his face illuminated by the candles, ‘I shall ask the spirits to show me your fortune.’ He cleared his throat and spread his arms out theatrically. ‘Show me his fortune please, spirits!’

Alan looked down at his crystal ball. After a few moments, he frowned.

‘What’s this?’ he whispered. ‘How . . . ?’

Arthur leaned forward; he couldn’t see a thing except the bubbles trapped in the green glass.

Alan suddenly looked up at him fearfully.

‘What’s going on?’ Alan said. ‘Is this a trick?’

‘What do you mean?’ Arthur asked.

‘I don’t like it,’ Alan whimpered, staring into the ball. ‘Make it stop.’

Alan was actually rather good at this, Arthur thought; he even had sweat beading on his orange forehead.

‘What have you brought here?’ Alan asked hoarsely, grabbing Arthur by his shoulders.

‘Woah, hang on,’ Arthur said, pulling away.

‘Get out,’ Alan squealed. ‘GET OUT!’

Arthur sped out of the room and back into Mrs Farkin’s shop, where Penny and Xanthe were waiting with their mouths open.

‘What on earth happened in there?’ Penny said.

Before Arthur could answer, Alan appeared from behind the curtain, panting, his moustache hanging from his upper lip.

‘All of you get out now!’ he yelled.

‘Steady on, Alan,’ Mrs Farkin said. ‘They’ll write about this in their school paper.’

‘I don’t care. Don’t ever let them in again,’ he cried.

‘All right, you three,’ Mrs Farkin said, ‘you’ve upset poor Alan. Out with the lot of you.’

Arthur, Penny and Xanthe left the shop in a state of utter bewilderment.

‘What on earth was that all about?’ Penny asked.

‘What did you do to him?’ Xanthe said.

‘I honestly have no idea,’ Arthur replied, looking back in through the shop window.

‘Well,’ Penny sighed, ‘at least we have a story.’

Chapter Thirteen

George was very annoyed that he had missed the excitement in Farkin’s Joke Shop, especially since he had nearly had his teeth ‘accidentally’ knocked out by one of the Forge triplets during football.

The following morning at breakfast they were all discussing Alan’s strange behaviour, when Chuk appeared over Penny’s shoulder.

‘Can I talk to you?’ he asked.

‘O-of course,’ Penny stammered. She stood up awkwardly, quickly wiping jam from her cheek.

‘Do you want to talk to me too?’ Xanthe asked hopefully.

‘No, just Penny will do, thanks,’ Chuk said, as he led Penny away.

‘Ouch,’ George said once they were out of earshot. ‘Still, you’ll always have Arthur.’

‘Shut up, George,’ Xanthe and Arthur said in unison.

‘What do you suppose they’re talking about?’ Jake asked, trying to hide his jealousy.

‘Oh, probably just planning their wedding,’ George replied.

‘Shut up, George,’ Jake muttered.

‘What, is it “Shut Up, George” Day now?’ George said.

‘Every day is “Shut Up, George” Day,’ Arthur answered, with a smile.

Chuk and Penny sat down on the edge of the mermaid fountain.

‘Sorry to grab you like that, Penny,’ Chuk said. ‘But I’ve been thinking about what you and Xanthe said yesterday. About Cornwall.’

‘Okaaay,’ Penny answered.

‘I did a little research last night, and you’re right. Something doesn’t add up.’

‘What did you find?’ Penny whispered.

‘I spoke to one of the journalists at Dad’s paper. Apparently Cornwall got into some sort of trouble in London. He disappeared in the middle of the night, obviously came here to lie low. He’s in the bad books of some fairly scary people.’

‘Well, judging by the conversation in the maze, they’ve caught up with him,’ Penny reasoned. ‘Poor Cornwall.’

‘Hold your sympathy – we don’t know what he’s done yet.’

‘Good point,’ Penny replied. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing for the time being. Just keep an eye on him, and make sure your friends do too. Let me know if you notice anything weird. I’ll go to his gallery during half-term, see if anything seems suspicious.’

‘No problem,’ Penny said.

The bell rang for lessons.

‘Right,’ Penny said, hopping off the fountain. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Me too,’ Chuk said.

Penny was just about to walk away when something occurred to her. ‘If you want me to tell my friends anyway, then why did you bring me out here?’ she asked.

‘Maybe I just wanted to talk to you by yourself.’ Chuk grinned.

By the time Penny had remembered how to talk, Chuk was already halfway to his lesson.

‘I’m not sure about this,’ Jake said uneasily, when Penny explained the situation to her friends at break time. ‘What are we looking for exactly?’

‘Just anything out of the ordinary, I guess,’ Penny said with a shrug.

‘But Cornwall is out of the ordinary,’ Jake said. ‘He’s just eccentric. We can’t assume he’s a dangerous lunatic because he dresses like one.’

‘By that logic, George would be in prison for his floral jeans alone,’ Arthur said.

‘My floral jeans are amazing, and I look like a god in them,’ George said. ‘What about your sparkly, pink trainers?

‘Touché.’

‘OK,’ Xanthe said, ‘we have an art class this evening after CCF.’

‘Ugh. It’s not CCF already. I loathe CCF,’ groaned Penny.

‘Yeah, I think you’ve made that perfectly clear, Penny,’ George said. ‘You know, with all the whingeing and the moaning and the complaining about it every week.’

‘Well, I do,’ Penny said, pouting.

That afternoon, all dressed in their camouflage, the whole of the second year had to practise making rain shelters in the Shiverton woods. The Forge triplets had thrown themselves into their role of senior cadets even more than usual, and took great pleasure in screaming at their juniors until they were purple in the face.

Arthur’s shelter was as hopeless as everyone else’s; he had half-heartedly draped his piece of tarpaulin over some branches and was trying to camouflage it with some wet leaves. In spite of this, when Dan Forge appeared to inspect it, he smiled and patted him awkwardly on the back. ‘Well done, Bannister,’ he said, the praise audibly sticking in his throat. ‘Very promising.’

‘Seriously. What is up with Dan?’ George asked, once Dan had moved on to terrorise a girl who had made a much better shelter than Arthur.

‘I really have no clue,’ Arthur answered, baffled.

‘Is it just me, or is everyone behaving weird around here at the moment?’ George said. ‘I feel like we’ve stepped through the looking glass.’

‘Yeah. And where on earth have we stepped into?’ Arthur asked.

That evening’s art class got off to a bad start. Cornwall was edgier than normal, his green, satin shirt was stuck to him with sweat, and he paced around the art room frantically. Every time one of the students coughed, or scraped their chair back, Cornwall jumped and looked around wildly for the source of the noise.

‘He doesn’t seem well,’ Jake whispered to Arthur. ‘What’s happened to him?’

‘Stop whispering!’ Cornwall yelped. ‘What are you whispering about?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ Jake replied.

‘I can’t have you whispering when I’m trying to think! How am I supposed to think with you . . .’ Cornwall trailed off, as though he had forgotten where he was for a moment. He glanced out of the enormous windows fearfully.

‘Never mind,’ Cornwall muttered. ‘Just get on with your self-portraits.’

The class forced their eyes back on to their canvases. George had overreached himself, once again, and was attempting an enormous oil painting of himself dressed as a medieval knight – except that it looked more like a potato draped in ferrets. Penny was using coloured ink for her self-portrait and was rather pleased with how it was going; Xanthe was using watercolours almost as incompetently as George; Arthur had stuck with something simple and was doing a rather smudgy charcoal drawing; and Jake had made a tiny etching.

Penny looked over Jake’s shoulder.

‘Jake! It’s amazing!’ she gasped.

Jake had pictured himself sitting in a chair in an empty room, looking out into a starry night through a round window.

‘But it makes me feel sort of sad,’ Penny admitted.

‘Sad?’ Jake replied. ‘Why?’

‘You look so lonely,’ Penny said.

‘I was thinking about Mum . . .’ Jake replied.

Penny suddenly leaned over and gave Jake a hug. He was so surprised, and so embarrassed, that he forgot to lift his own arms and they remained dangling limply by his sides.

Cornwall looked at Penny beadily. ‘No hugging!’ he yelled. Penny rolled her eyes and went back to her inks.

The sound of a phone ringing pierced the quiet of the room, and Cornwall leapt to his feet.

‘What is that?’ he cried.

‘I think it’s your phone, sir,’ Arthur said.

‘What?’ Cornwall looked bewildered. ‘Oh . . . yes.’

He struggled to fish his mobile from the pocket of his tight, paisley trousers.

George giggled.

Cornwall looked at the name on the screen. ‘I have to take this,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Carry on with your portraits.’ And with that, he walked out of the classroom.

‘Woah,’ Arthur said. ‘What was
that
? He’s completely losing his marbles.’

‘I’m more interested in who’s on the other end of that call,’ Penny said.

Emboldened by Penny’s hug, Jake volunteered.

‘I’ll see if I can hear anything,’ he said, discretely slipping out of the door.

‘Be careful,’ Xanthe called after him in a low voice.

Jake followed Cornwall around the art block, past the pottery room and the screen-printing studio. He had to keep his distance, and could not quite hear the content of Cornwall’s frantic whispers. Cornwall stopped in the middle of the corridor, leaving Jake exposed, only a few paces behind him. Jake swerved into an old supply cupboard and hid behind one of the shelving units.

‘I will not calm down!’ Cornwall’s voice echoed through the hall.

Jake moved closer to the door, breathing as quietly as he could.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Cornwall continued; he sounded close to tears. ‘It’s not too late!’

Jake could faintly hear the person on the other line. They sounded angry.

‘You’ve got to get me out of this. Didn’t you hear what I said? There are children here,’ Cornwall hissed. ‘And
he’s
here.’

There was a pause. Jake leaned in further and accidentally knocked a tin of paintbrushes from a nearby shelf. They fell to the floor with a clatter. Jake froze.

‘Hold on,’ he heard Cornwall say. ‘I’ll call you back.’

Cornwall’s footsteps drew nearer; Jake pressed himself into the corner of the cupboard, behind a stack of easels.

Cornwall appeared in the doorway and Jake held his breath.

‘I know you’re in here,’ Cornwall said.

Jake stepped out of his hiding place.

‘Oh! Hello, sir,’ he said as blithely as he could. ‘I was just fetching a scalpel: my blade broke.’

Cornwall studied him for a moment. ‘Of course,’ Cornwall said steadily.

Jake reached for the scalpel, and as he did so he noticed something behind the shelves. He gasped.

Cornwall gave a hollow laugh and stepped closer to Jake.

‘I really wish you hadn’t seen that,’ Cornwall said.

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Jake said. ‘I promise.’

‘And why don’t I believe you?’ Cornwall sneered.

Cornwall took the key from the lock.

‘Now I’m going to lock you in,’ he said, with a deranged calmness that made Jake’s blood run cold. ‘Be a good lad and try not to make any noise.’

A few minutes later, Cornwall reappeared in the classroom. It was nearly the end of the class.

‘Sir,’ Penny asked, putting up her hand after a few minutes had passed, ‘have you seen Jake?’

‘Jake?’ Cornwall asked. ‘No, why?’

After the class was dismissed, Cornwall hurried back down to the storeroom. When he opened the door it was as cold as a refrigerator.