Shiverton Hall, the Creeper (9 page)

‘Did you do it?’ Chuk whispered.

‘We couldn’t,’ Penny replied quietly. ‘But I think next week we’ll –’

She stopped and looked at the boys.

‘I know what you’re doing, George,’ Penny sighed, as George pretended to inspect a candlestick on a nearby table.

‘What?’ George said innocently. ‘I was just checking the . . . er . . . silver heritage of this . . . erm . . .’

‘It’s a candlestick, George,’ Xanthe finished.

‘Yes, exactly, candlestick,’ George said.

‘Right. Shall we go up to the
Whisper
office?’ Chuk said.

‘Yes,’ Xanthe said, with a smug smile directed at Arthur. ‘I think we need a bit of privacy.’

Penny, Xanthe and Chuk disappeared up the gigantic staircase, whispering as they went.

‘What on earth are they up to?’ Arthur asked as he and George watched them go.

‘I don’t know,’ George said, ‘but I hope it has something to do with my most recent cartoon. It’s called “School Lasagne: Part II”.’

Chapter Seven

Cornwall was looking even more dishevelled than usual. Today he was wearing an outfit that would not have looked out of place in a budget Seventies music video and was swigging from a bottle of cola, the contents of which were suspiciously clear.

‘Bet you a quid that isn’t water,’ George whispered to Arthur as they settled into their seats. They were not in the art block; instead, Cornwall had decided to take the class on an ‘Artistic Journey Around Shiverton Hall’. The class had already looked at the bloodthirsty murals on the dining-hall walls, the depressing mermaid statue in the middle of the fountain, and a stained-glass window entitled
Hell
, which depicted Shiverton Hall in spring.

The final leg of their tour was the Shiverton library and the Gainsborough painting that now hung above the fireplace. The portrait had caused quite a stir, with the students already speculating that it was most probably worth more than the entire Shiverton Hall estate put together.

Jake sat on the chair nearest to Cornwall, craning forward earnestly. ‘All right, keen-o?’ Penny said as she sat down beside him.

‘Shhhhh,’ Jake hissed. ‘He’s about to talk.’

Penny rolled her eyes at George and Arthur.

‘Right,’ Cornwall made a start, ‘is everyone sitting comfortably? Then let’s begin.’

He pointed to the portrait, which depicted a man and a woman, in liquid, dove-grey silks, sitting in the foreground of a vast, grassy landscape.

‘This is Mr and Mrs Pontefract,’ Cornwall began, squinting up at the painting. ‘A hugely rich landowner and his equally loaded wife. This portrait was painted to commemorate their marriage, and to remind anyone who happened to walk past it quite how powerful they were. Everything you can see, from this lake to the left to the hills and forest in the distance, forms part of the Pontefracts’ gigantic estate.’

George whistled.

‘Impressive stuff,’ Cornwall agreed. ‘And this painting is one of Gainsborough’s finest. As you can see, Mr Pontefract is holding a book. He was keen to be seen as a learned man, and not just a farmer, which the fashionable set of the day seemed to think he was. His wife’s hands and lap are unpainted – does anyone have a guess as to why that might be?’

The class stared back at him blankly.

‘The couple wanted Gainsborough to add a child as soon they had one, but sadly, it was not to be. The Pontefracts’ only child disappeared a few months after she was born. Snatched from her nursery, where the painting was hanging.’

Penny looked at the blank space on Mrs Pontefract’s lap sadly. ‘How awful,’ she said out loud.

‘It is awful,’ Cornwall agreed, ‘and I’m afraid poor Mrs Pontefract didn’t live much longer herself. When she died, Mr Pontefract gave the painting away. Said he couldn’t bear to look at it.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Xanthe said, screwing up her nose. ‘It gives me the creeps.’

Cornwall looked at Xanthe with interest. ‘That’s unusually perceptive of you, Xanthe,’ Cornwall replied. ‘What makes you say that?’

The class turned to look at Xanthe. It was unlike her to be moved by anything, much less scared.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, looking uneasily at the painting. ‘I just don’t like it, that’s all.’

Cornwall smiled and pointed up at the portrait. ‘Xanthe isn’t the first to be unnerved by this picture. Tell me, does anyone notice anything unusual about it?’

The students peered up at the painting.

‘The faces . . .’ Jake said suddenly.

‘Good!’ Cornwall responded. ‘What about the faces?’

‘They look . . . scared,’ Jake said.

‘Indeed they do. Difficult to perceive at first, but the longer you look, the more evident it becomes.’

Arthur noticed it for the first time, a slight tension in Mr Pontefract’s mouth and a glimmer of fear in his wife’s eyes. They seemed to be staring out of the painting imploringly, begging the viewer for something, but for what exactly was not clear.

‘There is something else,’ Cornwall continued. ‘Something even stranger. Can anyone tell me what it is?’

The students searched the painting, but no one raised their hand.

‘Look at the hill, just before the forest,’ Cornwall said.

Arthur felt a ripple of anxiety when he saw what Cornwall was referring to. In fact, the whole class, one by one, began to shiver as they realised.

There was a figure standing on the hill.

Although it was barely more than a shadow, a dark whisper, its malevolence was somehow absolute. It seemed to be watching the couple, and in what must have been some painter’s trick, the figure appeared to creep closer without ever actually moving.

‘Gainsborough scholars call this figure “the Creeper”,’ Cornwall said. ‘What is odd about it, aside from the way it looks and the feeling it gives the viewer, is the fact that Gainsborough did not paint it. Or if he did, he painted it after he painted the rest of it. When the painting was completed and handed to the Pontefracts, Mrs Pontefract’s younger sister made a watercolour copy in order to improve her brushstrokes. The copy is extremely detailed, and rather good, but it does not contain the figure.’

Cornwall plucked an old book from one of the shelves and opened it with a dusty crack. The volume contained a copy of the watercolour, and the students passed it round and examined it.

‘So, where did it come from?’ Cornwall continued. ‘Who is the Creeper? Why did it appear? We only know that by the time the portrait was passed on to its next owner the Creeper was there.’

‘Weird,’ Penny said.

‘It’s not the only weird thing about this painting,’ Cornwall said. ‘According to various sources, this picture is cursed.’

‘Great,’ Arthur said under his breath. ‘Exactly what this place needs.’

‘Legend has it that in every place this portrait has hung, a child has disappeared,’ Cornwall said. ‘They say the Creeper clambers out of the painting and possesses the child . . . for whenever a child vanishes, so does the Creeper.’

The class looked nervously up at the picture. The figure seemed even more malevolent than before.

‘If that’s true then why hasn’t someone just burned it?’ Xanthe said sceptically.

Cornwall laughed. ‘You’d be pretty idiotic to burn a painting that’s worth a fortune. Curse or no!’

‘Sir,’ George said. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea that we have this painting here? You know, in a school full of kids.’

Cornwall smiled enigmatically and put on his sunglasses. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll all be all right,’ he said. ‘As long as the Creeper stays on that hill. It’s when you can’t see him that you should be worried.’

The bell rang, but the class remained, transfixed by the painting.

‘Well, go on, then,’ Cornwall sighed. ‘Shoo!’

The class began to gather up their things, gossiping excitedly about the Creeper.

Arthur and George approached Cornwall, who seemed to be engrossed in a text message on his crystal-encrusted phone.

‘Mr Cornwall,’ Arthur asked politely.

‘What?’ Cornwall snapped.

‘Do you think that story is true, about the painting? It’s just . . . things have happened here before,’ Arthur continued nervously.

‘A cursed painting?’ Cornwall laughed. ‘Come on, you boys are too old to believe that sort of thing!’

‘So, it’s not true?’ George asked.

Cornwall sighed and put his phone down. ‘Look, half of Hampton Court is supposed to be haunted,’ he said. ‘There must be hundreds of old jugs or pictures or bits of furniture that are supposed to have weird properties. Are there stories about this painting? Yes. Does that mean I believe them? Of course not! I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s only a story.’

‘Yeah,’ George muttered to Arthur as they left the library. ‘I’ve heard that before.’

Chapter Eight

The following Wednesday, Arthur made his way up the path through the woods to Mrs Todd’s house, trying not to think about the long fingernail that had been embedded in the trees so many centuries before.

It was a warm afternoon, and even though the woods glimmered in the sunlight, Arthur still felt a little anxious walking through them alone. Ever since the burned man had paid him the midnight visit at Christmas, Arthur was terrified that he might bump into him again.

Arthur paused. A twig snapped behind him. He turned around, but saw nothing, although, he realised uneasily, there were plenty of places to hide. He began to walk more quickly. He could see the smoke curling from Mrs Todd’s chimney: he was nearly there. Something rustled in the bushes to his right and before he had time to run, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He spun around, his fist instinctively clenched beside him, only to find George panting in front of him.

‘George!’ Arthur yelled. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack! What are you doing?’

‘Sorry, Arthur,’ George replied. ‘I tried to catch up with you but you were absolutely pacing it. The Forge triplets gave me the afternoon off, said I was a worse player than the children and that I should “keep an eye” on you.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Beats me. But I didn’t stick around to ask. Do you think Mrs Todd would have a spare slice of cake for me?’

Mrs Todd not only had an extra slice of cake, but also seemed to have purchased the entire cake shop.

‘I recognise you,’ she said to George as she showed them into her cluttered sitting room. ‘Have I met you before?’

‘Nope,’ George replied, his face already stuffed with a jam tart.

‘Was your father at the school?’ she asked.

‘Yup, and my grandfather,’ George said, moving on to a fondant fancy.

‘That must be it,’ she replied. ‘I’ve lived here all my life. I think I must have seen every single student that ever passed through Shiverton Hall. Though I’ve no idea why parents would send their children there. A horrible place.’

‘I told George your typewriter story,’ Arthur said, gulping down some strong, sweet tea poured from Mrs Todd’s silver teapot.

‘Did you?’ Mrs Todd replied, pleased. ‘I’ve got nothing but stories these days, that’s the problem with being so ancient, you see.’ She smiled sadly.

‘Do you believe the stories?’ Arthur asked. ‘About Shiverton?’

Mrs Todd chuckled. ‘I don’t think that there is a single person who lives in this village who doubts the stories. Most of them have one or two of their own.’

‘Do you know any more?’ George asked excitedly, spraying crumbs all over Mrs Todd.

She discreetly wiped them away with a floral handkerchief.

‘More than I could count,’ Mrs Todd chuckled. ‘But I couldn’t possibly tell you . . . You wouldn’t sleep.’

George shifted forward on the sofa eagerly.

‘Oh, all right,’ Mrs Todd said. ‘Maybe just one.’

The Fair

In the summer of 1962 a travelling fair rumbled into Grimstone in the middle of the night. The mayor, a rather pompous man with a lopsided blond wig, was astonished to wake up and find the normally subdued Grimstone high street filled with carousels and helter-skelters and coconut shies. A silver and black painted sign in the middle of the high street read,
Malvolio and Violetta’s Marvellous Fair – You’ll never want to leave!

The mayor elbowed his way through the crowds of excited children towards the great striped tent that had been erected in the middle of the fair, and demanded that the strong man who guarded the door let him in. Inside, the mayor discovered a young woman, no more than twenty, in a glittering river-grey costume and a plumed, crystal headdress, sitting at a desk. The girl looked up at the mayor with enormous violet eyes and asked him what the matter was.

The mayor had always been rather awkward around beautiful women and stammered that he would like to see the manager of the fair, not yet realising that he was already speaking to her. Violetta simpered and batted her eyelashes, and before the mayor knew what was happening, he was standing outside the striped tent, clutching two free tickets to the Ferris wheel and blushing furiously. It seemed that the fair could stay in town for as long as it pleased.