Goth Girl and the Ghost of a Mouse
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needle points at its ends and a large jaw that jutted out when he spoke. Mary Shellfish blushed and gave a girlish giggle. ‘This is Rupert von Hellsung,’ she told Lord Goth. ‘My carriage broke a spoke a few miles back and Herr von Hellsung rescued me by the roadside. Imagine my surprise and delight when we discovered that we were both your guests, Lord Goth.’ Lord Goth raised an eyebrow and Ada could tell that he didn’t remember inviting a Rupert von Hellsung to his country house party but was too polite to say so. Behind him, Maltravers
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stepped forward. ‘I believe Herr von Hellsung is the hobby-horse champion of Munich, my lord,’ he said in his thin, wheedling voice. ‘Indeed?’ said Lord Goth, with an elegant smile. ‘Welcome to Ghastly-Gorm Hall,’ he said, shaking Rupert von Hellsung’s hand. ‘Dinner is at eight.’
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Chapter Eleven da clumped up the stairs and along the corridor to her room. She hoped her father could hear her, because she had hated disappointing him by not wearing the big, clumpy boots the day before. But everything was going to be all right, she told herself as she pushed open her bedroom door. Lucy
Borgia would see to that. Ada had only known her for one day, but already she was beginning to think she might be the best governess she’d ever had. Dinner was at eight and Ada knew that she would be expected to sit quietly at the end of the steam-engine dining table and listen to the brilliant conversation of Lord Goth’s distinguished guests. None of the guests ever talked to Ada though, because she was just a child and couldn’t possibly have anything interesting to say, and besides, they were too busy thinking up brilliant things to say themselves. Ada wished that Emily and William had been invited to the grand dinner. Ada went into her dressing room and found her Friday-evening clothes laid out on the Dalmatian divan. There was a satin gown of midnight blue, a pair of
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black elbow-length gloves embroidered with stars and a crescent-moon tiara with a swan-feather clasp. Ada put on the gown and gloves and then pinned up her hair and put on the tiara. She looked down. On the floor next to the divan, instead of her big clumpy boots, there was a pair of elegant black slippers with clicketty-clack heels. Ada smiled. On special occasions Ada was allowed to wear less noisy shoes, and the grand dinner before the
metaphorical bicycle race and indoor hunt was a special occasion. Ada put on the slippers and did a little twirl in front of the big looking glass. An appreciative growl came from the depths of the closet. Ada gave a little curtsy and went down to dinner. The dining room of Ghastly-Gorm Hall was in the east wing. It had tall windows with fine views over the dear-deer park along one side. Along the other wall was an indoor viaduct, which led from a Corinthian serving hatch by the door to the long dining-room table in the centre of the room and back again. A model railway track led out of the serving hatch, along the viaduct and around the table. The track came from the kitchens of Ghastly-Gorm Hall, and a small steam engine called the Gravy Rocket* ran along it. On special occasions this was used to carry Mrs Beat’em’s dishes up to the
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guests, who could help themselves to whatever caught their fancy as the steam engine chugged slowly passed. After completing a circuit of the table the Gravy Rocket would trundle back to the kitchens to be refilled by the waiting kitchen maids, ready for the next course. When Ada got to the dining room, the Gravy Rocket’s whistle could be heard in the kitchen and Lord Goth’s guests were taking their places at the table. Ada sat down at her place at the end. Dr Jensen was throwing bread rolls at Martin Puzzlewit, who was angrily knocking them away with his boxing gloves. At the head of the table Lord Goth smiled quietly and elegantly and pulled the bell rope beside his chair. A few moments later the steam engine, which had been designed and built for Lord Goth by the son of an engineer called Stephenson, came chugging through the Corinthian serving
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hatch by the door and along the indoor viaduct. As Ada watched, Stephenson’s son’s Gravy Rocket rounded a bend and wobbled past her on to the dining-room table. Everyone served themselves as it went past. The steam engine trundled back on to the viaduct and headed towards the Corinthian serving hatch. The sounds of chugging and rattling faded briefly into the distance before growing louder again. With a tooting whistle the Gravy Rocket re-emerged from the hatch and rattled towards the table, its carriages refilled with steaming dishes. As it rolled by, Dr Jensen threw a rhubarb and duck flan at Martin Puzzlewit, which hit him on the forehead. ‘As Dr Jensen says, when a man’s tired of rhubarb, he’s tired of life . . .’ said MacDuff as the cartoonist shook his gloved fist at him. ‘I might not be good at drawing hands, but I can draw really big noses!’ Puzzlewit raged.
*Rupert von Hellsung’s hunting lodge, the Sinister Schloss, is located in the spooky forests of the Bavarian Alps. As well as the heads of stags, boars and bears on the walls, Von Hellsung also keeps a stuffed English hedgehog called Mrs Tiggiewinkle in a glass case by the door.
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‘You just wait and see . . .’ Ada sank down in her seat. This was a typical dinner, with food fights and arguments and nobody listening to anyone else. She looked out through one of the tall windows. The sun had set and the full moon was shining down on the dear-deer park. The ornamental Chinese deer cast moon shadows in the silvery light. Ada looked over her shoulder at the door to the dining room. Where was Lucy Borgia? she thought anxiously. Lord Goth was sitting back in his chair with a bored expression on his face as the Duchess of Devon told a story about one of her overweight Dalmatian hounds using her carriage to chase cats. The steam engine rattled past and headed back to the kitchen. Just then, the door opened and Lucy Borgia entered the room. Dr Jensen was flicking spoonfuls of apple-
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and-bacon trifle at Martin Puzzlewit, who was swinging at him with his boxing gloves while MacDuff told Mary Shellfish and Tristram Shandygentleman what Dr Jensen had said about lobsters. None of the guests paid any attention to the white-faced woman dressed in black as she strode up to Lord Goth. Stopping by his chair, she tapped him lightly on
the shoulder with her umbrella. At that moment, the Gravy Rocket returned fully laden from the kitchen. It steamed along the indoor viaduct and set off across the table. Ada sat up in her chair. ‘Lord Goth, there is something I must tell you . . .’ Lucy Borgia said in a clear voice. At that moment Martin Puzzlewit swung his fist at Dr Jensen on the other side of the table and hit a carriage carrying a generous pile of snails steamed in their shells and a large sauce boat. The snails went everywhere, while the sauce boat flew through the air, spattering the guests with warm pungent butter as it did so. As Ada watched the sauce hit Lucy Borgia, who recoiled in horror. ‘No-o-o-o-o!’ she screamed as she turned and fled from the room. For a moment nobody spoke. MacDuff picked up a napkin and wiped his face.
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‘As Dr Jensen says, when a man is tired of garlic butter, he is tired of life.’
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Chapter Twelve obody noticed Ada leave the dining room. They were too busy throwing food at each other and arguing at the top of their voices. Ada hurried up the grand staircase, her heels clicketty-clacking on the steps as she did so. When she reached Lucy Borgia’s room she found her governess lying motionless on the bed. She was wearing a black slip, and her black dress lay crumpled in the corner. ‘I’m sorry, Ada,’ she said weakly, ‘I failed you . . . but the garlic . . . it is poison to vampires . . .’ ‘It was an accident,’ said Ada. ‘You did your best.’ ‘Please, take that away from here. The smell . . .’ Lucy pointed to her black dress. ‘At least the garlic didn’t touch my umbrella . . .’ Ada picked up the dress. ‘Now I must rest,’ said Lucy, closing her eyes,
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‘to regain my strength. I’m afraid it is up to you now, Ada. You must stop Maltravers and rescue those poor creatures!’ Ada left Lucy’s room and slid down the banister. Reaching the first-floor landing, she saw a familiar, flickering glow. ‘Ishmael,’ she said, noting how extra see-through the ghost of a mouse look
ed, ‘what’s wrong?’ ‘I’ve just come from the broken wing,’ said Ishmael, his whiskers trembling, ‘where I overheard Maltravers talking to one of your father’s guests.’ ‘Which one?’ asked Ada, getting down from the banister and walking with Ishmael along the corridor to her room. ‘Cruel eyes, pointy moustache, big chin . . .’ said the mouse. ‘I didn’t like him.’ ‘Von Hellsung,’ said Ada, entering her enormous bedroom and closing the door behind her. Ishmael stood on the Anatolian carpet and
looked up at her with wide eyes. ‘They’ve got it all planned out. Tomorrow night, for the indoor hunt, Maltravers has laid out a route through the broken wing that leads up to the rooftops.’ ‘The rooftops?’ said Ada, puzzled. ‘But my father wouldn’t have agreed to that. He never goes up to the rooftops, not since the night my mother . . .’ she
paused. ‘The man with the cruel eyes laughed and said that that way none of them could escape.’ Ishmael shuddered. ‘He said that the heads would look splendid on the wall of his hunting lodge in Bavaria*.’ ‘The heads?’ said Ada, sitting down on the edge of her eight-poster bed. ‘This is even worse than I had imagined . . .’ ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Ishmael. ‘What
shall we do?’ Ada kicked off the slippers with the clicketty-clack heels and slipped on her black pumps. ‘There’s only one thing we can do . . .’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And what’s that?’ asked Ishmael. Ada’s green eyes sparkled. ‘Call a meeting of the Attic Club!’ she said. The next morning Ada overslept. It was Saturday, the day of the annual metaphorical bicycle race and indoor hunt. Poor Ada had been up half the night. She climbed out of bed and went into her dressing room, where she found her Saturday clothes laid out on the Dalmatian divan. She got dressed quickly in the crimson velvet jacket with gold buttons and the white damask dress, together with the dark green cape, and picked up the pearl-handled umbrella next to it. Ignoring her big clumpy boots, Ada put on her black leather pumps and slipped quietly out of the
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shall we do?’ Ada kicked off the slippers with the clicketty-clack heels and slipped on her black pumps. ‘There’s only one thing we can do . . .’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And what’s that?’ asked Ishmael. Ada’s green eyes sparkled. ‘Call a meeting of the Attic Club!’ she said. The next morning Ada overslept. It was Saturday, the day of the annual metaphorical bicycle race and indoor hunt. Poor Ada had been up half the night. She climbed out of bed and went into her dressing room, where she found her Saturday clothes laid out on the Dalmatian divan. She got dressed quickly in the crimson velvet jacket with gold buttons and the white damask dress, together with the dark green cape, and picked up the pearl-handled umbrella next to it. Ignoring her big clumpy boots, Ada put on her black leather pumps and slipped quietly out of the
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room as the great-uncle clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve. Outside in the warm sunshine, the runners and riders were lining up for the start of the annual metaphorical bicycle race around the specially designed hobby-horse racecourse. On your toes . . . get wet . . .’ BANG! Maltravers fired the starting pistol in the air and the kitchen maids screamed as the runners and riders set off.
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Round the first bend, Lady George and Tristram on Hoity-Toit were in the lead, followed closely by Lord Goth on Pegasus, the poets Molebridge and O’Quincy on Beige Beauty and Tam O’Shanty side by side, then Dr Jensen and MacDuff on Trojan with Mary Shellfish on Jilly C., and Martin Puzzlewit on Scribble bringing up the rear. Up the Hill of Ambition, Hoity-Toit, Beige Beauty and Tam O’Shanty slipped back on the muddy path, and Lord Goth took the lead. Down the other side, Dr Jensen rapidly gained speed, Trojan knocking Beige Beauty and Tam O’Shanty out of the way and sending the two poets head first into the Pond of Introspection.
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On the Gravel Path of Conceit, Lady George lost a shoe and Tristram fell off the back of the tandem and tore his shirt cuff. Racing towards the Slough of Despond, the remaining riders rapidly slowed as the wheels of their hobby horses got clogged with mud. Dr Jensen scooped up a handful and hurled it at Martin Puzzlewit behind him. With a high-pitched scream of outrage, the radical cartoonist fell off Scribble and sank up to his middle in a slurry-filled puddle. Three riders now remained as the race reached the Avenue of Outrageous Fortune: Dr Jensen, shaking the mud from the hems of his huge tartan trousers; Lord Goth, bespattered but elegantly determined, and Mary Shellfish, clinging on to her hobby horse.
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As they entered the tunnel of trees, Dr Jensen swerved across Lord Goth’s path. MacDuff reached out from the basket sidecar and tried to stick his club into the spokes of Pegasus. Just in time, his legs a blur of movement, Lord Goth zigzagged away. MacDuff’s club clattered along the trunks of the trees, dislodging several squirrels, which fell into his basket. He let out a piercing shriek and leaped into Dr Jensen’s lap, causing the doctor to steer into a tree with a resounding crash. Lord Goth and Mary Shellfish rounded the last bend and galloped towards the finishing post neck and neck. Suddenly, swooping down out of a clear blue sky, a large seabird swooped down and dropped a lump of ice down the neck of Mary Shellfish’s Breton smock. With an indignant yelp the distinguished lady novelist ploughed into the Chicane of Thwarted Hope and fell off her hobby horse.
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Raising his top hat in elegant triumph, Lord Goth and Pegasus cantered past the finishing post to be greeted by the cheers of the grooms and housemaids. Coming from the old icehouse and rounding the corner of the west wing, Ada paused. She held a portfolio in one hand and an umbrella in the other, which she used to wave to Arthur Halford.
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The hobby-horse groom nodded in reply. Then Ada turned and hurried across the Venetian terrace before disappearing through the Byzantine windows into Ghastly-Gorm Hall.
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Chapter Thirteen s darkness fell over Ghastly-Gorm Hall a procession of villagers from the nearby hamlet of Gormless made their way in through the gates and down the drive. Flaming torches in hand, they quietly filed around the overly ornamental fountain and trooped around the side of the west wing at the back of the house. There, amidst the weeds and tangled undergrowth of the Back of Beyond Garden (unfinished), the crowd of villagers peered through the dusty windows of the broken wing as they waited for the indoor hunt to begin. Meanwhile, in the main hall of Ghastly-Gorm, Lord Goth and his guests assembled on their hobby horses. Molebridge and O’Quincy still weren’t speaking
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to each other. Sitting astride their hobby horses, holding long-handled butterfly nets, the two poets glared at each other. On their tandem, Hoity-Toit, Lady George and Tristram shared an extra-long-handled butterfly net and were very excited. ‘I do so enjoy chasing miniature pheasant,’ Lady George was saying to Lord Goth. In the saddle behind her, Tristram nodded enthusiastically. ‘Maltravers has just told me he has a surprise in store for us,’ said Lord Goth drily. Although he didn’t show it, Lord Goth was delighted with his victory in the metaphorical bicycle race, and had high hopes for the indoor hunt. ‘As Dr Jensen says, when a man is tired of surprises, he’s tired of life,’ said MacDuff from his seat in the basket sidecar attached to the doctor’s hobby horse. Dr Jensen poked Martin Puzzlewit with the
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end of his long-handled butterfly net. The radical cartoonist gripped the handlebars of his hobby horse with his boxing-gloved fists and tried hard not be provoked. Next to him, Mary Shellfish patted back her carefully coiffured hair and fluttered her eyelashes at Rupert von Hellsung. ‘I hope you’re not still cold,’ she said with a girlish giggle, as she looked at the ankle-length bearskin cape von Hellsung was wearing, ‘After all, this is an indoor hunt, you know.’ ‘Indeed,’ said von Hellsung who, much to Lord Goth’s disappointment, had excused himself from the metaphorical bicycle race due to a sudden ‘chill’. ‘Now I am recovered, I am very much looking forward to a successful hunt,’ he said, sitting forward in the saddle of his hobby horse, the Ride of the Valkyrie. Maltravers stepped out from behind
the
*The Polar Explorer’s spare foot is kept in his wooden trunk and only used if absolutely necessary. At the present time, the spare foot is using the extensive knowledge of its former owner, a distinguished historian, to write footnotes to a Gothic novel.
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