by K. M. Grant
‘What? Eh? You’ve a damned cheek, calling my boy names.’ Mr Entwhistle bustled in and retrieved his hat. He tried to seize the broken arm. Garth clung to it. Mr Entwhistle left the arm. He was not getting involved in a tug of war. He inspected the Italian plasterwork on the hall ceiling. ‘Very fancy,’ he commented in disparaging tones. ‘What’s the point of it?’
Charles did not hear. He was faintly protesting at Merle and Lilith who, finding Daisy’s crutches leaning against the bottom of the banister, were pretending to be lame themselves. Garth kicked the crutches away. He wanted to kill somebody – not the intruders: they were not worth the bother. He wanted to kill his father. It was Charles’s fault that these appalling people were here. It was his fault that Hartslove was for sale. It was his fault that Gryffed was dead. At this moment, Garth could think of nothing that was not his father’s fault. Head down, he cannoned out of the hall, up the stairs and locked the door of his desecrated room behind him.
Mrs Entwhistle brushed down her skirts. ‘What do you think, Jonas?’ she asked.
Charles blinked at the broken Furious Boy and recaptured enough of himself to make a decision. Whether they bought the place or not, these people must leave. ‘You’ll want to be home before nightfall,’ he said, ‘so you’ll need to be off.’
‘Righty right,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘Gather yourselves together, children.’ He seized Charles’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘I’d a feeling, you know, when I saw the “for sale” sign, that this old place would be for us. Near enough the town to oversee my mills and far enough to keep the children’s lungs healthy. My lawyer’ll be here tomorrow to negotiate a price. Promise not to sell it to anybody else in the meantime?’ Charles nodded and removed his hand. Anything to get these people out.
Jonas Entwhistle twinkled at his daughters, now fighting over the crutches. ‘Girls! Girls! I can’t hear myself think!’ He dug Charles in the ribs. ‘Children! Aren’t they a joy?’
‘Remember what you said!’ shouted the boy.
‘Oh yes,’ said his father. ‘When you move out, Robin wants you to leave that dreadful old bear you’ve got lying around in the big passage. He’ll have a great time with it.’
‘I’m going to shoot at it,’ Robin declared. ‘Bang, bang!’ He aimed his make-believe gun first at his sisters, then at Lily and Rose, then at his father.
Jonas Entwhistle chuckled. ‘Come, Entwhistles all! Homey-home we go. Time for our dinner, righty right.’
In the courtyard, there was an inconvenience. The Entwhistle coachman was scratching his head. A wheel had dropped out of alignment; the carriage was unusable. ‘It’s the potholes in your drive,’ said Mr Entwhistle, visibly annoyed. ‘You’ll have to lend us your carriage.’ This made him less annoyed. The de Granville carriage would make the neighbours gape.
‘We don’t have a carriage,’ said Rose.
There was a rumble, and Tinker appeared pulling the vegetable cart. ‘Premium White Boars’ had been crudely painted on the side. Clover or Columbine was driving. Both jumped down. ‘We saw your carriage and thought this might be of use,’ they said. ‘It’s the pigs’ market cart, as you can see, but it’ll get you home safely.’
Merle and Lilith were aghast. ‘We’re not going through the town in that.’
‘Of course not,’ their mother agreed. ‘Jonas, send James for our other carriage.’ She seldom had the opportunity to say this and relished it now. She did not like the de Granvilles. Twitching, shuffling Charles was ridiculous; his children as cold as the statues in the hall. The castle deserved a family with a bit of life to it and she would make sure it got it.
Jonas was inspecting the damage. ‘James’ll never make it to town and back tonight, my dear. We can send him off with the carriage horses, but it’ll be tomorrow before he can return.’
Daisy was aghast. These people could not stay. ‘You’ll have to get home somehow. There’s nowhere for you to sleep,’ she said. ‘We haven’t had guests for years.’
Mrs Entwhistle’s tassles rippled. ‘Don’t you worry. You won’t have guests tonight. What are you thinking, Jonas? Just get us home. The place is filthy.’
‘I’m sorry, my songbird, but home’s only possible if we use this pig cart or walk – or, of course, if you ride one of the carriage horses,’ Jonas said, not unreasonably.
At once, his daughters set up a clamour. ‘Don’t be so stupid, Father. We’re not walking or riding a carriage horse and we definitely aren’t going in that cart.’ The painted letters stood out even more brightly in the gathering gloom.
‘Shut up, cretins!’ interrupted Robin. ‘Dirt or no dirt, why shouldn’t we stay here? The castle’s practically ours.’
His sisters brightened a little. ‘He’s right, Mother. And dirt’s better than people seeing us in a pig cart,’ they shrilled. ‘Besides, we’ve never stayed in a castle before.’
‘We’ve no dressing maids or night attire,’ Mrs Entwhistle said as though that clinched the matter, but her voice was not as certain as her words. Darkness was falling fast, and no matter how loudly she complained, her husband could do nothing about that.
Clover and Columbine tapped her on the arm. ‘We can give you night attire,’ they said, solemn-faced. ‘The curtains in the billiard room will be perfect.’ Mrs Entwhistle glared at them. They all returned to the drawing room.
A highly awkward hour followed as a tight-lipped Mrs Snipper, rejecting all assistance, rustled up some dinner. Rose and Daisy sat mute. Daisy had persuaded Garth to come down and he stood by the door, glowering. Into the silence Clover and Columbine read out the details of a Manchester murder from the newspaper. ‘“The policemen have arrested nobody yet and have warned householders to check that no elderly neighbours have disappeared. Nobody in the district should buy meat from disreputable butchers.” Whatever can that mean?’
Charles drank four glasses of brandy without water.
When Mrs Snipper called them into the dining room, Jonas Entwhistle seized a sconce and peered at the pictures. ‘I’ll make you an offer for a few of these,’ he said. He paused for quite a time at the Landseer. ‘That your ma?’
‘Wife,’ Charles said.
‘Dead?’
Charles shook his head.
‘I see,’ said Jonas. ‘A bolter, righty right?’ His eyes glinted. This was the business.
‘No,’ said Garth, his voice low and dangerous. ‘Not righty right. My mother’s not for sale.’
Jonas Entwhistle took off his glasses and shook his double chins. ‘I think you’ll find even mothers are for sale, for the righty-right price.’ Now that they were stuck here, he seemed determined to find everything amusing again.
Mrs Snipper pushed in the trolley. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Starving,’ Robin said. ‘I could eat a horse.’
‘Well, isn’t that a Lucky Coincidence,’ Mrs Snipper said, smiling glassily, and with great delicacy spooned out great domes of something mousse-like. Heaped plates were presented to all the intruders. It took them a minute or two to realise they were eating alone, observed like laboratory rats by the silent de Granvilles.
‘No scoff for you?’ Jonas paused, mouth open. ‘Some religious fasting thing, righty right? We’re more chapel people ourselves. Keep God in his place.’ His only answer was the chatter of Lily’s birds from the sideboard.
‘What was that?’ asked Mrs Entwhistle. She could feel the mousse slightly grainy on her tongue.
Mrs Snipper made a show of wiping down a mousetrap. ‘Waste not, want not,’ she said. Mrs Entwhistle gulped.
The second course arrived with covers on. Again, the plates were set only in front of the intruders. Charles, holding on to his decanter, noticed nothing. Clover and Columbine, whispering, turned very slowly and gazed at Lily’s birdcage. ‘Only three left,’ they said in unison, and turned back to stare at the plate covers. ‘What a shame.’ The Entwhistles’ hands, hovering over the covers, dropped to their sides.
After a sui
table gap, Mrs Snipper returned. ‘Enjoy that, dearies?’ she said. She lifted one of the covers. Three lamb cutlets glistened. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like cutlets,’ she said. ‘I served them specially.’
Jonas’s stomach rumbled. He was starving. ‘Lamb? Oh, for goodness sake. We thought –’ He glared at the birdcage, then at the twins.
A cake with cream and stewed fruit arrived. This was served to everybody except Charles, who waved it away. The intruders sighed with relief when they saw the Granville children pick up forks and spoons. When they had all finished, the candles snuffled themselves out.
‘Irritating things, candles,’ said Jonas. ‘We’ll soon put gas in here, righty right.’ He relit the candles. ‘Not keen on fruit?’ Jonas asked, noticing that Garth had pushed his to one side. He picked it up with his fingers. ‘Waste not, want not, as your old servant says.’
Garth watched him chew and swallow. ‘Bats aren’t fruit,’ he said.
Jonas choked. His wife screamed. His children shrieked. ‘Don’t be so silly!’ Jonas shouted. ‘Look here, nobody makes a mousse out of mouse. Nobody stews bats. It’s a joke, righty right. A joke. It’s the sort of joke snooty people like to play. It’s why the French revolted.’ He itched to wallop Garth.
Back in the drawing room, his wife and children subdued, Jonas decided to be frank. He sat down next to Rose. ‘You people kill these old castles, you know. You and the dirt.’ He brushed down his trousers. ‘We’ll be doing you a favour, getting you out of here. You’re a pretty girl, you know. You should be out in the world, righty right. As for her –’ he nodded confidentially at Daisy – ‘she should be in a place for cripples, not a burden to you all. They do say that being crippled’s the wages of sin, and although it seems harsh, what other explanation is there? You pretty ones need to get away from this –’ he gestured around – ‘and her. And, indeed, from your housekeeper. Mrs Snapper, isn’t it? She’s fit for an asylum.’
‘Snipper,’ Rose said.
‘Snip, Snap, whatever.’ He patted Rose’s knees with sweaty hands. ‘Your father’s a sad case too, righty right. Drink’s going to kill him.’
‘Don’t you dare say that! Don’t you dare!’ cried Clover or Columbine.
Jonas Entwhistle clicked his tongue. ‘Look,’ he said, quite kindly, ‘it’s a crying shame that you’re all stuck in another century, and it’s not the last century or even the one before that. Do you want to be left behind?’ It was terrible to Rose to hear her own thoughts in this man’s horrible mouth. Jonas could see that something had hit home. He leaned back. ‘Your family’ve had a go here. It’s our time now.’ He winked at his son. ‘There’ll be generations of Entwhistles at Hartslove, eh, Robin? Girls’ll be queuing up when you’re of an age to marry.’ He hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat. He was genuinely sorry for Rose. She looked so stricken. ‘You can always come back and visit, you know. Lilith and Merle’ll welcome you, won’t you, girls?’ He heard Garth growl. ‘Oh, I hear you, young man. But can you read and write and keep an account book?’ Garth slowly bent both legs over until they were resting on his head. ‘Very fancy,’ said Jonas, quite unimpressed. ‘Tell me, is that going to earn a crust for your sisters? You can’t expect to be mollycoddled by women all your life, you know.’
Rose rose. ‘Bed.’
They were halfway up the stairs when the bell in the church began to toll. Mrs Entwhistle jumped. ‘That’ll keep me awake.’
‘Me too,’ complained Robin.
‘And we can’t have that,’ said Jonas heartily. ‘Who’s tolling that bell? It’s not very neighbourly, not at this time of night.’
‘A priest tolls it. He lives in the church,’ Clover or Columbine said.
‘Does he pay rent?’
‘I think he prays for us.’
‘I like a man who says his prayers.’ Jonas listened, then shook his head. ‘No. I really don’t like a man who tolls a bell in the night. We’ll have to find him something else to do.’
They reached the top of the stairs. The bell was still tolling.
‘Bang, bang,’ said Robin.
Rose opened the door of a long unoccupied room. ‘Bang, bang,’ she replied, her eyes hard as diamonds. ‘Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.’
17
The visitors were asleep. Robin, at his own insistence and to his father’s amusement, was installed in the grandest room in the castle.
Charles lay collapsed on the drawing-room sofa. Garth kicked him.
‘Don’t kick him, Garth. He can’t defend himself.’ Lily carefully arranged their father’s legs, wrapping one of Gryffed’s old blankets round them.
Garth turned on Clover and Columbine. ‘You should never have tampered with their carriage. You should never have painted that notice on to Tinker’s cart. We should never have let them stay here. Never.’
‘We didn’t tamper with the carriage,’ Clover or Columbine retorted. ‘We don’t know how that happened. But when we saw it, we just thought . . . we just thought . . .’
‘You didn’t really think at all,’ shouted Garth. ‘You never do.’
‘That’s not fair!’ cried Clover and Columbine. ‘We did think. We thought that at least if they were here, they couldn’t be at the lawyer’s drawing up papers and we could still put them off.’
Their father groaned.
‘Stop shouting!’ begged Daisy. ‘You’ll wake him.’
Garth chucked his knucklebones into the air.
‘For God’s sake, Garth!’ Rose’s nerves were strung tighter than a bow.
Garth threw the bones higher.
‘Please, Garth,’ implored Daisy. Garth stopped. ‘Look,’ Daisy said, ‘Clover and Columbine are right. If the Entwhistles are here, we can still try to put them off. I mean, maybe we could wake them and force them to watch Garth being a ghostly tumbler on the roof. It worked before.’
Rose shook her head. ‘It’s too late. Too late for anything.’
‘No,’ insisted Daisy, ‘it’s not, though perhaps the Garth thing wouldn’t work. The father’s too hardboiled. He’d see Garth was missing and know at once what was what. We need something else.’
‘You shouldn’t have said anything about Father Nameless,’ Garth snapped at Rose. ‘We might have done something with the bell.’ He began to juggle again.
‘You think a tolling bell would be enough to scare a man like that?’ Rose wanted to snatch the knucklebones.
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ agreed Daisy, her voice rising. ‘Why, oh why did these people have to pass by today? The Derby’s so close!’
‘Sod’s law,’ said Garth.
‘Who was Sod?’ asked Clover or Columbine.
‘Christ in Heaven, Clover! What does that matter?’
‘I’m Columbine,’ said Columbine.
Daisy peeled some crumbling plaster.
‘Daisy! What are you doing?’ Lily was on her feet.
‘Nothing.’ Daisy dropped the plaster. ‘I was just thinking . . .’ They looked at her expectantly. ‘Why on earth are we bothering with the father?’ she said slowly.
‘Because he’s the one who makes the decisions,’ Garth said.
‘Yes. But the children have got to live here too, and he can’t really live here if they don’t want to.’
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Daisy’s right,’ said Garth. ‘If we’re going to try to frighten anybody, it should be Robin. Let’s do more than frighten him. Let’s chop one of his fat arms off and –’ Garth still ached for the Furious Boy.
‘No,’ said Daisy. ‘Let’s do something worse.’
They all gaped. ‘Worse than cutting off someone’s arm?’ Lily felt faint.
‘A missing arm’s a missing arm,’ said Daisy. ‘It’s what goes on in your head that kills.’
An hour later something very curious slipped into Robin’s room. The boy was snoring. The figure began to cry loudly. Robin stirred but did not wake. The figure stopped crying for a moment, shook dust from the hangings and b
egan to cry again. This time Robin did wake and found, hovering by the bed, the Furious Boy, no longer a cold statue but a living creature, white as milk except for a bloodied stump where his arm had been. The Boy was holding his severed limb above the pillow. The limb was dripping blood. The walls of the castle dampened Robin’s screams and he soon realised that nobody could hear. He cowered. ‘Go away!’ he whispered hoarsely.
The statue spoke in a curious, sing-song hiss. ‘I want something.’
A drop of blood landed on Robin’s nose. He did not dare wipe it off. ‘What do you want?’
‘Revenge.’
Robin began to mewl. ‘I didn’t mean to knock your arm off. Really, I didn’t.’ A tiny particle of courage returned. This must be a nightmare. In a moment, he would wake up. ‘Bang, bang.’
The Furious Boy grimaced horribly and produced a long, curved knife. Robin felt a warm flow down his leg. ‘Oh,’ he shrieked. ‘I’m murdered! I’m murdered! Oh sweet Jesus, save me.’ He bit his fingers. He rocked. ‘I can’t be awake. I can’t be.’
The Furious Boy indicated with the knife that Robin should get out of bed. ‘How? I’m injured! I’m dying!’ Robin pulled out his legs, only to find that the warm flow was not blood: he had wet himself. ‘Mother! Father!’ Nobody came. He crumpled on to the floor feeling the point of the knife where his pantaloons met his frilled shirt. He crawled to the door, shot up, flung it open and ran the whole length of the passage, through several other doors – some large, some small – some cobwebbed, some not – under portraits and old stags’ heads and past three rusty suits of armour until, climbing some stairs, he eventually turned a corner where he found lamps burning. His family must be here. He shoved open the nearest door and saw his mother’s shoes and his father’s boots strewn about in the manner of people accustomed to servants. Their lumpy figures were humped in the bed. Peeping from below the pillow, for fear of burglars, was the necklace his mother had been wearing.