I looked away. He was right, of course. What choice did I have?
‘You are to move schools,’ said Jerwood.
‘Move schools?’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Sir Stephen feels that St Barnabas is not quite suitable for the son – the ward, I should say – of a man such as him.’
‘But I am happy where I am,’ I said stiffly.
Jerwood’s mouth rose almost imperceptibly at the corners.
‘That is not what I have read in the letters Sir Stephen has received from the headmaster.’
I blushed a little from both embarrassment and anger at this stranger knowing about my personal affairs.
‘This could be a new start for you, Michael.’
‘I do not want a new start, sir,’ I replied.
Jerwood let out a long breath, which rose as mist in front of his face. He turned and looked away.
‘Do not fight this,’ said Jerwood, as if to the trees. ‘Sir Stephen has your best interests at heart, believe me. In any event, he can tell you so himself.’ He turned back to face me. ‘You are invited to visit him for Christmas. He is expecting you at Hawton Mere tomorrow evening.’
‘Tomorrow evening?’ I cried in astonishment.
‘Yes,’ said Jerwood. ‘I shall accompany you myself. We shall catch a train from –’
‘I won’t go!’ I snapped.
Jerwood took a deep breath and nodded at Bentley, who hurried over, rubbing his hands together and looking anxiously from my face to Jerwood’s.
‘Is everything settled then?’ he asked, his nose having ripened to a tomato red in the meantime. ‘All is well?’
Bentley was a small and rather stout gentleman who seemed unwilling to accept how stout he was. His clothes were at least one size too small for him and gave him a rather alarming appearance, as if his buttons might fly off at any moment or he himself explode with a loud pop.
This impression of over-inflation, of overripeness, was only exacerbated by his perpetually red and perspiring face. And if all that were not enough, Bentley was prone to the most unnerving twitches – twitches that could vary in intensity from a mere tic or spasm to startling convulsions.
‘I have informed Master Vyner of the situation regarding his schooling,’ said Jerwood, backing away from Bentley a little. He tipped his hat to each of us. ‘I have also informed him of his visit to Sir Stephen. I shall bid you farewell. Until tomorrow, gentlemen.’
I felt a wave of misery wash over me as I stood there with the twitching Bentley. A child’s fate is always in the hands of others; a child is always so very powerless. But how I envied those children whose fates were held in the loving grip of their parents and not, like mine, guided by the cold and joyless hands of lawyers.
‘But see now,’ said Bentley, twitching violently. ‘There now. Dear me. All will be well. All will be well, you’ll see.’
‘But I don’t want to go,’ I said. ‘Please, Mr Bentley, could I not spend Christmas with you?’
Bentley twitched and winced.
‘Now see here, Michael,’ he said. ‘This is very hard. Very hard indeed.’
‘Sir?’ I said, a little concerned at his distress and what might be causing it.
‘I’m afraid that much as Mrs Bentley and I would love to have you come and stay with us, we both feel that it is only right that you should accept Sir Stephen’s invitation.’
‘I see,’ I said. I was embarrassed to find myself on the verge of tears again and I looked away so that Bentley might not see my troubled face.
‘Now then,’ he said, grabbing my arms with both hands and turning me back to face him. ‘He is your guardian, Michael. You are the ward of a very wealthy man and your whole life depends upon him. Would you throw that away for one Christmas?’
‘Would he?’ I asked. ‘Would he disown me because I stay with you and not him?’
‘I would hope not,’ he said. ‘But you never know with the rich. I work with them all the time and, let me tell you, they are a rum lot. And if the rich are strange, then the landed gentry are stranger still. You never know what any of them will do . . .’
Bentley came to a halt here, realising he had strayed from the point.
‘Go to Hawton Mere for Christmas,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s my advice. That’s free advice from a lawyer, Michael. It is as rare and as lovely as a phoenix.’
‘No,’ I said, refusing to change my grim mood. ‘I will not.’
Bentley looked at the ground, rocked back and forth on his heels once or twice, then exhaled noisily.
‘I have something for you, my boy. Your dear mother asked me to give this to you when the time came.’
With those words he pulled an envelope from his inside coat pocket and handed it to me. Without asking what it was, I opened it and read the enclosed letter.
Dear Michael,
You know that I have always hated taking anything from that man whose life your dear father saved so nobly at the expense of his own. But though each time I did receive his help it made me all the more aware of my husband’s absence and it pained my heart – still I took it, Michael, because of you.
And now, because of you, I write this letter while I still have strength, because I know how proud you are. Michael, it is my wish – my dying wish – that you graciously accept all that Sir Stephen can offer you. Take his money and his opportunities and make something of yourself. Be everything you can. Do this for me, Michael.
As always and for ever,
Your loving mother
I folded the letter up and Bentley handed me a handkerchief for the tears that now filled my eyes. What argument could I have that could triumph against such a letter? It seemed I had no choice.
Bentley put his arm round me. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘All will be well, all will be well. Hawton Mere has a moat, they tell me. A moat! You shall be like a knight in a castle, eh? A knight!’ And at this, he waved his finger about in flamboyant imitation of a sword. ‘A moated manor house, eh? Yes, yes. All will be well.’
I dried my tears and exhaustion came over me. Resistance was futile and I had no energy left to pursue my objection.
‘Come, my boy,’ said Bentley quietly. ‘Let us quit this place. The air of the graveyard is full of evil humours – toxic, you know, very toxic indeed. Why, I knew a man who dropped down dead as he walked away from a funeral – dead before he reached his carriage. Quite, quite dead.’
Bentley ushered me towards his carriage and we climbed inside. The carriage creaked forward, the wheels beginning their rumble. I looked out of the window and saw my mother’s grave retreat from view, lost among the numberless throng of tombs and headstones.
MORE TALES OF TERROR
Steel yourself for more blood-curdling Tales of Terror
... not for the faint-hearted!
MISTER CREECHER
A fantastically frightening gothic thriller
from the Master of the Macabre …
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHRIS PRIESTLEY has found great success with his beautifully judged and macabre stories for younger readers. As well as the chilling and brilliant Tales of Terror series, he is also the author of many acclaimed novels, including for Bloomsbury The Dead of Winter and Mister Creecher, and the soon to be published Through Dead Eyes. Chris is also a talented artist and illustrator. His cartoons have appeared in many national newspapers and magazines, including the Independent and the Economist. Chris lives in Cambridge, where he continues to write his seriously scary stories. To find out more about Chris, visit: www.chrispriestleybooks.com
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney
First published as an electronic edition in Great Britain in November 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP
Copyright © Chris Priestley 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit,
reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4088 3840 2
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Christmas Tales of Terror Page 8