His parents’ bodies were never recovered. It was assumed that if the lava had not killed them then the ocean most certainly would have – probably eaten by sharks somewhere off the coast.
Rather like the volcano, Milo’s life erupted that day, and it had never recovered.
Leaving his grandfather at the stage door, Milo raced to Mrs Boobank’s busy florist and began making his afternoon deliveries. He took purple tulips to an irritable woman on Harding Street, three dozen roses to a small house on Kipling Lane and a bouquet of lilies to a tearful lady with white hair who was retiring after thirty-seven years at the Winslow Square Bank.
Milo then headed at considerable speed for the Winslow Square Community Theatre. By the time he arrived the concert was already well underway so he snuck in through the stage door and watched the remainder of the performance from the wings.
The orchestra was in fine form, a sea of wrinkly faces more joyful and alive with each wave of the maestro’s baton. The stage was awash in a rich golden glow and the brightest light of all was coming from the maestro as he stood before his beloved orchestra, making beautiful music.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard Beethoven sound better,’ declared Milo after the concert. He and the maestro were walking the three short blocks from the theatre to the Little Paradiso – a cosy café where they ate once every two months as a special treat. During supper the maestro entertained Milo with a story about his violin lesson with Mrs Elma Teesdale, who was not the most delicate of players and had a tendency to savagely bash the strings with her bow. Milo laughed loudly but the maestro could see the faraway look in the boy’s eyes.
When their bellies were full they left the café and headed silently across the main square.
‘Forgive me, Milo,’ said the maestro softly, ‘but I know something is troubling you tonight. Are you feeling unwell, my boy?’
Milo let out a deep breath. He should have known better than to try to keep anything from his grandfather. ‘I received a letter from Uncle Silas.’
‘Mamma mia!’ The maestro was stunned to hear that name. ‘Your mother wrote many years ago and told me all about this Silas. Even after he offered your father work, she did not think him to be a good man.’
‘He is the worst sort of man,’ said Milo sharply.
‘For what reason did he write to you?’ asked the maestro.
Milo reached into his back pocket and produced the envelope, handing it to his grandfather. They sat down together on the cool stone steps of the town hall while the maestro read the contents carefully. When he was finished he handed it back to Milo without saying a word.
They were just a few blocks from home when the maestro spoke again. ‘Your uncle has great wealth.’
Milo shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘It could be that he wishes to help you. After all, a dying man can often have a change of heart.’
‘What are you saying, Maestro?’
‘I am saying,’ said the maestro softly, ‘that perhaps your uncle can offer you security: money and that sort of thing.’ He shrugged sadly. ‘Things I cannot give you.’
‘I’d rather eat a dirt sandwich than go anywhere near Silas Winterbottom!’ said Milo fiercely. ‘I’m sorry, Maestro; I know you’re only saying this because Silas is rich, but I don’t want any of his money! Not his ten thousand dollars – not a single penny!’
The maestro raised his hands in defeat. ‘As you wish, my boy,’ he said. ‘But you know money is not the only reason to visit Silas. No, not at all.’
The boy scowled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean ...maybe there are some things you want to say to him while there is still time. Face to face, yes?’ He patted Milo on the back. ‘It might do your heart good to get this anger off your chest.’
Milo said nothing and the subject was not raised again the rest of the way home. When they arrived back at the tiny apartment Milo lit a fire and filled a pot with water – they would have hot chocolate before bed as they did after every meal at Little Paradiso.
While he was waiting for the water to boil, Milo sat by the fireside and pulled the letter from his pocket. He read it once more – each arrogant word a reminder of why he hated his uncle so much – and remembered what the maestro had said about confronting Uncle Silas face to face. He thought of how cold-bloodedly that heartless villain had sent his parents to their deaths just to satisfy his own greed . . . and how they were lost to him forever.
He felt a deep satisfaction as he tore up the cheque for ten thousand dollars. Yes, such a large amount of money could help them a great deal, but it was poisoned money and he did not want any part of it.
‘See you soon, Uncle Silas,’ he said, throwing the pieces into the glowing fire. ‘I’ll make you sorry you ever invited me to Sommerset.’
THE MASTER OF SOMMERSET
‘The master’s coming!’ shouted Atticus Bingle, his voice echoing down the long vaulted hallway of the servants’ quarters. ‘Do hurry up!’
The gilded elevator descended steadily through the entrance hall like an enormous gold and silver birdcage, as a procession of servants and maids scurried across the polished stone floor below, quickly arranging themselves in a perfectly straight line.
They watched as the magnificent cage dropped silently past the upper levels and came to a smooth stop on the ground floor. The ornate doors parted, sliding open like an iron curtain. In the centre of the cabin, washed in the reflected glow of the gold and silver bars surrounding him, Silas Winterbottom stared out at his staff with the intense glare of a hungry vulture.
Among even the oldest servants of Sommerset House, the appearance of their master never failed to chill. After all, the sight of a thin, ghostly white man with fierce dark eyes and long black hair sitting regally in a wheelchair with a four-metre crocodile at his feet was enough to strike cold fear into even the bravest of souls.
Silas’s long bony fingers rested on the chair’s joystick, which had been cast from liquid bronze into the shape of a crocodile’s head, complete with sparkling rubies for eyes and a mouth full of pointed silver teeth.
‘Good morning,’ said Silas smoothly.
‘Good morning, Mr Winterbottom,’ replied the servants in unison.
Silas pushed the joystick forward and the chair rolled silently out of the elevator cage and into the massive hall. Thorn, the four-metre crocodile, lifted his heavy, scaled body from the cage floor and sauntered alongside the moving chair, his long, broad snout sweeping from side to side, seeking out any sign of danger in the room.
‘Tell me,’ said Silas, ‘who was the delightful maid I heard humming in the hallway outside my bed chamber at exactly six minutes past seven this morning?’
From among the line of servants a solid-looking girl with honey-blonde hair and a rather egg-shaped body stepped forward. Her eyes slid down towards the crocodile; Thorn’s ancient gaze fixed on her.
‘And what is your name?’ said Silas sweetly.
‘My name is Ursula Vovko,’ she replied.
‘And the music you were humming,’ said Silas, ‘what was that?’
‘Folk music, Mr Winterbottom, from Slovenia,’ said Ursula. ‘My Grandma Tonka taught me many songs when I was a little girl.’
Silas tilted his head slightly, his gaze intense. ‘Fascinating.’
‘I hope I didn’t disturb you this morning, Mr Winterbottom,’ said Ursula, folding and unfolding her arms rather nervously.
‘Heavens no,’ said Silas. ‘I adore Slovenian music; such a gift to the world. I only regret that ill health prevented me from leaping out of bed and doing the polka.’
Ursula giggled, blushing. ‘I am sure you have heard better voices than mine, sir.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Silas brightly. ‘But yours is so very distinct, possessing all the natural melody of a fire alarm.’
A few sniggers rippled along the line of servants.
The chambermaid smiled awkwardly. ‘Well, thank you . . . sir.’
/> ‘And to show my appreciation for your musical gifts, I have selected you to take Thorn for his morning walk.’ Silas held out a large metal choker attached to a length of thick chain. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
To say that Ursula was not keen on taking the reptile for a walk would be something of an understatement. Ursula’s hands shook violently.
‘Er . . . I am not so good with crocodiles,’ she said, instinctively taking a step back. ‘You are very kind, sir, but perhaps you might choose someone else?’
‘But I choose you,’ said Silas.
‘Sir, please . . . I do not think . . .’ Her voice trembled. ‘I cannot do it.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Silas softly. ‘You can and you shall.’ Silas shook the leash at her playfully. ‘Hurry now, Thorn likes to take his walk before it gets too hot.’
With tears pooling in her eyes, Ursula took a tentative step towards Thorn and extended her trembling hand to take the leash. As she did, Silas tapped his fingers twice on the joystick, the band of his thick gold ring rapping lightly against the bronze crocodile head. To the staff assembled before him the gesture was meaningless, but to Thorn it was a command, like drumbeats in an ancient forest. The crocodile’s wet nostrils seethed and flared and before anyone knew what was happening Thorn had charged towards Ursula, his large jaws cracking open, unleashing a thunderous growl.
The perfectly formed line of servants broke apart amid blood-curdling screams as maids and kitchen hands rushed frantically to the far reaches of the entrance hall.
Ursula stood frozen, her eyes pierced with terror, her legs locked to the floor, as Thorn’s gaping jaws rushed at her, his large jagged teeth glistening under the diffused light coming through the glass dome above. With a fierce crack, the beast’s jaws snapped shut barely an inch from her outstretched hand – hot breath tickled the fine hairs along her arm. She would have screamed but her voice was as frozen as her body.
Calmly Silas tapped his fingers three times on the bronze joystick. Instantly Thorn started to back up, his large webbed claws clicking on the stone floor as he retreated. Ursula remained utterly still.
Silas observed the young woman with interest. ‘Remarkable,’ he said, more to himself than anybody else. ‘She is utterly frozen.’
It was true. The fear had caused complete paralysis. The vast entrance hall was rendered silent, as if holding a collective breath. Very gradually Ursula began to tilt – just slightly at first. Moments later, as if in slow motion, her toes lifted from the floor and she began to fall back, crashing to the stone floor like a block of cement.
The spell was broken and the servants rushed towards her – a group of under-butlers and a few gardeners made several failed attempts to lift Ursula from the floor before Mrs Hammer had the good sense to call for a stretcher. After some debate about how best to move her, the frozen maid was rolled onto the stretcher and carried into the library where she remained, her condition unchanged, until the paramedics arrived and took her away.
‘She’ll have to go, Bingle,’ said Silas, passing through the large conservatory doors leading into the garden. ‘It’s unfortunate, but there you are. The girl is clearly terrified of animals.’
‘Very well, Mr Winterbottom,’ said Bingle dutifully. The softly spoken butler had worked at Sommerset for over thirty years and his entire life had been devoted to the service of Silas Winterbottom. His only goal was to make his master happy. ‘I will see to it.’
‘By the way,’ said Silas, ‘have you made the necessary arrangements for my special guest?’
Bingle nodded, lowering his voice. ‘Everything has been arranged, sir. All of the supplies were delivered down below as you requested.’
‘Excellent. And remember, Bingle, it is vital that my friend’s presence on the estate remains undetected.’ Silas smiled thinly. ‘He is rather eccentric and values his privacy a great deal.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Bingle assured him. ‘Apart from Mrs Hammer, who will assist me when your guest arrives, no-one will know he is here. You have my word, sir.’
Outside the morning sun sprayed soft yellow light across the flowerbeds, each one blooming with a different coloured rose. The twelve acres of beautifully tended gardens directly behind the conservatory were Silas’s private escape – a series of interlocking garden rooms connected via a gallery of imposing iron gates.
Silas manoeuvred his chair along the flagstone path between two rows of white and orange roses. Beyond the flowerbeds was a sunken pond, and Thorn lowered himself into the cool salt water.
A low groan echoed across the piazza as an ornate iron gate swung open. A solitary figure in dull grey overalls and a large straw hat closed the gate behind him and walked slowly along the garden path.
‘The tea roses are not looking well, Moses,’ said Silas tersely. ‘What is wrong with them and what are you doing to fix the problem?’
‘Mildew on the leaves,’ said Moses gruffly. ‘I’m treating them – should be fine in a week or so.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Silas with considerable relief. ‘I want to discuss the new seedlings for the west pavilions this afternoon. We will meet in the greenhouse at four, Moses. Do not be late.’
Moses grunted and turned his back, shuffling towards a bed of white roses on the far side of the garden. Silas tilted his frail head back and felt the morning sun slide across his narrow face. It felt like a warm pair of hands.
‘Silas, you look well!’ said a commanding voice from behind him.
Silas swung his chair around swiftly. ‘Whitlam, what a wonderful sense of humour you have,’ he said calmly. ‘I look like a man on the brink of death and you know it. Now, what news do you bring for me?’
‘Quite a bit in fact,’ said the wrinkled little man with a snub nose and an impressive mass of curly white hair. Whitlam had been Silas’s attorney for over forty years and he was well accustomed to the rather curious demands of his oldest client. Yet even he had been astounded when Silas had suddenly instructed him to locate Adele, Isabella and Milo Winterbottom for the purpose of inviting them to Sommerset, despite having ignored the children’s existence entirely up until that point. He was also deeply moved to see a dying man reaching out to his family after a lifetime of neglect.
‘Well,’ snapped Silas impatiently, ‘what is it?’
‘I have heard from your nieces,’ Whitlam informed him. ‘You’ll be pleased to learn that they have both accepted your offer. In fact, they seemed positively delighted by the invitation.’
Silas nodded knowingly. ‘That is no great surprise – their parents would gladly walk through fire for a slice of my fortune.’ He caressed the ring on his finger. ‘What about the boy?’
‘I have spoken with Milo,’ said Whitlam as he took a seat under the shade of a white pergola.
‘Well, what did he say?’ said Silas, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘Has he agreed to come?’
‘He has.’
‘Excellent!’
‘However,’ said Whitlam, taking a pair of silver spectacles out of his pocket and cleaning them on his tie, ‘your nephew has a few conditions.’
Silas’s right eyebrow arched. ‘Conditions?’
‘To begin with, he refuses to accept the ten thousand dollars,’ explained Whitlam. ‘He considers it a bribe.’
‘How remarkable. What else?’
‘He will only come to Sommerset for a period of two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’ hissed Silas. ‘No, that isn’t enough time!’ Noticing the puzzled expression on Whitlam’s face, Silas softened his anger. ‘What I mean is, how am I to assess the boy’s suitability as my heir in just two weeks?’
‘Well, I’m afraid you will have to. The lad’s made it perfectly clear that his conditions are not up for negotiation,’ said Whitlam. ‘It seems the boy does not wish to be away from his grandfather for any longer than that.’
‘How touching,’ said Silas flatly.
From the back of the garden, Thorn crept out of the pond a
nd slithered slowly between the flowerbeds, sinking down onto the warm ground at his master’s feet.
Whitlam smiled admiringly. ‘He’s a stubborn lad, that’s for sure.’
‘His father was the same,’ said Silas coldly. ‘Stubborn and sentimental.’
‘Will I tell Milo you accept his conditions?’
‘Tell the boy whatever he needs to hear,’ instructed Silas, the urgency crackling in his voice. ‘I want Adele, Isabella and Milo under my roof by the end of the week. I will not surrender to death until I know the future of Sommerset is secure. Whatever it takes, Whitlam – bring the boy to me and bring him quickly.’
THE FIRST ARRIVAL
A few days later a grand black limousine with darkened windows, sparkling hub caps and a silver crocodile hood ornament collected Miss Adele Winterbottom from the airport.
Sitting in the back seat, Adele wrestled with a constant stream of fears – about how Silas would treat her, about her cousins and whether they would hate her red hair, about her mother’s threat to have her sent away to Ratchet’s House.
As the limousine headed deep into a rainforest, she peered out at the great cathedral of soaring trees, hanging vines and slick foliage.
‘Is this where my uncle lives?’ she asked.
The chauffeur laughed. ‘Not quite, Miss Winter-bottom, but we are close. Hold on now, miss.’
Without warning the car veered off the main road and swung to the left. Ahead of them was a thick wall of green vines twisted and tangled like a wall of knotted ropes. The road curved away from the dense barricade of vines yet the limousine did not; in fact, the black limousine thundered forward and Adele shut her eyes just seconds before impact.
Then she heard the slapping sound of the long knotted vines sliding over the limousine’s roof. She opened her eyes – they had passed through the wall of vines and were now on the other side, heading along a sealed road sheltered by a canopy of elm trees.
Silas and the Winterbottoms Page 3