“What?”
“It might be a good chance to look for her.”
“Who?” said Will absently.
“Who do you think?” asked Meg.
“Oh, the ghost,” Will said. La de de la da . . . His mind was still on the song.
“So are you coming?”
“Where?”
“To the auction! It’s at the manor,” said Meg. “That’s what Aunt Effie’s been telling us, and they’ll be letting people into special rooms that aren’t usually open to the public, and . . . Oh, never mind. You’re driving me crazy this morning.”
Will groaned at the thought of auction crowds jamming up the manor. He’d be pressed and crushed. That was the last place he wanted to be right now. Besides, they would never see the ghost in all that mess.
“Go on if you want,” said Will. “I’m going outside.”
Meg scowled and stamped upstairs. He stepped over Ariel, who was lying on the threshold rubbing Uncle Ben, and found Aunt Effie to tell her his plans. Then, whistling, Will lifted the latch to the Griffinage door.
The truth was Will wanted to be alone. On days like this, when songs came, he liked to think and wander nowhere in particular. He was glad the manor auction was going on today. It would keep everyone busy while he went off on his own. From the corner of Bibsie’s Woods, he watched Meg, Ariel, and Aunt Effie pile into the car, then he headed east and crossed over McBurney’s stile.
By now he was whistling loudly. The ewes barely lifted their woolly heads, but the lambs twitched their ears and looked at him. Nice song, they seemed to say. Stay and sing for us. But Will walked on. He was headed in the direction of the village. He had half an idea of buying a sausage roll at the bakery and taking a long hike, but when he climbed up the second stile he saw something that made him stop. It was the little stone church in the village, St. Giles, with its rectangular bell tower. Bells meant music. The church should have a piano.
Will hurried down the last hill and entered the church door. Cool, silent air swept over him. It was a Wednesday. The church was silent. A hushed, expectant feeling pervaded the stone walls as Will’s tennis shoes softly squeaked through the nave. To his left, a single candle flickered.
As he walked, something made Will pause and look down. There was writing under his feet. He could see letters and dates chiseled into giant slabs of what looked like limestone and slate. The church’s stone floor, which he’d thought was simply paving stones, was made entirely of graves.
Ghosts and bodies everywhere, he thought. Back home it wasn’t like that. They kept the dead safely removed in cemeteries, where no one was obliged to see them. He supposed it came from being in a country like England, where there was so much history. History kept piling up, so there wasn’t room to separate past lives from the living.
Will bent down to read the nearest slab, peering closely since years of walking had polished away the letters. WILLIAM, it said. DIED JANUARY 15, 1753. Will shivered and stood up fast. Of course, William was a common name, but it was still eerie to see his name carved on a gravestone.
He stepped into a small chapel side room to take a breath. By the chapel entrance was a wooden carving of a robed man, cradling a deer in his lap, labeled SAINT GILES. The little alcove itself was cheery, glowing red and orange from its stained-glass windows. Directly under the main window stood an altar flanked by twin stone angels. The light coming through the window illuminated both angels, turning one cherub yellow and the other orange.
Will was about to move on when he looked down at his feet again: PETER, BELOVED SON, DIED 1803, AGED 10. Ten like me, thought Will. He gulped. More graves. Trying to ignore the graves at his feet and just look straight ahead, he inched toward the main church once more. But everywhere he saw names and dates: Katherine, age 8; Thomas, age 2 years 3 months; Eleanor, “in the 12th year of her Life.” All those kids, thought Will. I must be in a children’s burial chamber.
It was a relief to be back in the nave. Suddenly, Will wished there were other people in the church, people sneezing, scuffling their shoes, shushing their children, and generally making vibrant, human sounds. He looked up and down the side aisle, and that’s when he saw a most friendly sight.
Tucked behind the stone pulpit was a piano. Just the view of it gave Will an unexpected jolt of pleasure. Warm and wooden in the middle of this silent, stone-cold place. Will drew closer. He was surprised by how much he missed playing. It had been several days since he’d touched his home piano.
His fingers twitched. He looked back over his shoulder. No one was around. What would it matter if he played? Just a few notes. The piano looked so inviting.
Will sidled up to the edge of the piano and lightly trilled his fingers along the white keys. It was in perfect tune. Of course—they probably used it every Sunday. Before he knew it, Will pulled out the piano bench and started playing. Soon he was lost in the notes. Ten minutes went by, then twenty. He played the Star Wars theme first, then dreamily moved into Satie and a minuet by Mozart he’d been practicing back home. Then he sighed and gave in to the melody that was lodged in his mind and had distracted him all morning. Dream music. Bell music. His fingers eagerly chased each note. As he played, a swirl of sadness surrounded him.
“Hello there.”
Will’s hands shot off the keyboard. Someone was standing beside him, a man, just a few feet away, leaning against a stone column. The man smiled at Will as he came closer. He was dressed in jeans and a navy-blue sweater, and wore round wire-framed glasses.
“Sorry to startle you,” the man said. “It’s not often we get a pianist walking through our doors. Especially on a Wednesday. Harriet’s day for choir practice is Thursday.”
Will dropped his hands in his lap and blushed. “Sorry,” he said. “I just saw it there, and . . .”
“No harm done,” the man continued. “Warms up the place to have music. Harriet has a piano at home, so she doesn’t practice here. This piano doesn’t get much use—a shame really.” He held out his hand to shake. “I’m Father Casey.”
“You’re a priest?” asked Will, staring at the man’s blue jeans.
Father Casey smiled. “Well, actually, I’m the curate. That’s a priest who’s sort of an assistant to the parish priest.”
Will relaxed. The man wasn’t angry. He glanced at the curate again and realized he was quite a young man, not much older than his cousin Neil, who’d just finished university last year.
“What’s your name?”
“William.”
Will was a little surprised at his own answer. Only his great-aunt Hazel ever called him by his full name, and sometimes Aunt Effie. Maybe it was because he was talking to a priest, even an assistant, off-duty one.
“William,” repeated the curate. “You’re staying with your aunt, aren’t you? Over at the Griffinage?” He smiled as Will’s mouth hung open in surprise. “It’s a small village, William. We tend to notice newcomers, and your aunt is a woman whose personality stands out, if you don’t mind my saying so. Besides, I think I saw you and your sister yesterday over at the manor. Welcome to Castle Cary.”
The mention of their visit to the manor made Will think of Meg. He suddenly felt bad about deserting her just because he wanted to play the piano. Plus, the auction was a rare opportunity. How could he have turned it down? Right now Meg might be digging up clues at the manor auction, and he was missing everything. But perhaps he could redeem himself. The priest might know something.
“Is the manor ghost buried here?” he asked.
Father Casey chuckled. “On a ghost hunt, are we?”
“Just curious,” said Will, and tried not to look too interested.
“Of course you are,” said the curate. “Who isn’t? She’s the one who puts Castle Cary on the map. Yes, she’s buried here, William. Against her will, I might add. She demanded to be buried on the manor grounds, but the vicar at the time wouldn’t have it. Insisted on consecrated grounds, you know. Maybe he was worried she’d com
e back to haunt things, which some say she did. In any case, the family vault’s on the west aisle, right across from the Chapel of Innocents.”
Chapel of Innocents, thought Will. That must be where all the children were buried. Maybe the manor ghost’s daughter, too. He might have something to tell Meg after all. Will glanced down the nave toward the little chapel and saw a man’s figure slip under its arched gates. Of course, grown-ups go in there, Will told himself, but this man’s gait reminded him of Shep. He was itching to go now and see Meg, but Father Casey leaned on the piano in a comfortable way and was talking again.
“I never could get the hang of a piano keyboard myself,” the curate was saying. “Took lessons for years as a boy, and finally accepted the truth: I don’t have it in me. But I am a keen listener. You have a gift, William. I can see you love music. Come and play the St. Giles piano anytime.”
Will thanked him, then flashed his wide Griffin grin and pushed in the piano bench.
“Wait.”
Father Casey put a hand on Will’s shoulder. He spoke softly but with a note of urgency.
“Tell me, what were you playing just now? What tune was it?”
What tune? Will paused to think. The Mozart? No, that was earlier. Why, he’d been playing the snatch of music that had been stuck in his head all day.
“Dunno,” he said. “Just a song I heard.”
The priest looked at him sharply.
“Something you heard, William?” he said.
Will blinked. He’d heard it all right, first thing this morning. Was it a dream, or had it come from somewhere? Involuntarily, he looked up toward the ceiling. A web of Gothic stonework met his eyes, fanning out in intricate patterns. Up above was the bell tower. That was it. He’d heard church bells pealing. The song was like change ringing: the kind of music made by bells high up in a tower, played by a team of people tugging huge ropes. To create a melody, you tugged the ropes in a certain order. Of course, the bells must have come from here, from St. Giles.
“Yeah,” he said. “I heard the bells playing. Then I just played the notes.”
The curate looked at him closely again.
“The bells,” he said finally. “The old bell song.” Father Casey’s hand dropped from Will’s shoulder. He gazed off at the stained-glass windows, and for a moment seemed to forget Will was there. When he looked back, he said a curious thing. “You couldn’t have heard the bells, William. Not unless you lived during my grandmother’s time. She used to hum that same tune because she missed the old bells when St. Giles replaced them after the fire, but the bells haven’t played that song for fifty years.”
The gold Mini was just pulling in when Will reached the Griffinage. He was hot and out of breath. He’d sprinted a good part of McBurney’s pasture, wanting somehow to put distance between himself and the eerie bells. How could he hear bells that hadn’t played for fifty years? It was creepy. Instead of seeing ghosts, he was hearing ghosts. If he stayed here much longer, who knows what he might start believing in.
Aunt Effie stuck her arm out the car window and waved to him over a cloud of dust. “Will! Give us a hand with this,” she shouted.
In the back seat sat a black, bulky chest. It was caked with dust and mildew. So was Ariel. She’d obviously been drawing pictures on the chest’s dusty sides with her finger on the ride home, and now dust decorated her shirt, hands, and the left side of her head. Will grabbed a corner of the chest next to Meg, and Aunt Effie took up the far end. Ariel yelled “Heave ho!” several times as she jumped up and down beside them.
The chest tipped precariously, and the three of them staggered under its weight. Will repositioned his grip to keep from dropping his end. This chest was heavier than anything he’d ever carried.
“Ouf!” said Aunt Effie, as they paused for a rest. “How can one box be so unearthly heavy? Good thing I’ve got you lot to help. Otherwise I’d have to drive the Mini right into the house.”
Meg flashed Will a smile as they lurched forward once again with the chest. Will grinned gratefully back. All was well—she’d forgiven him for going off by himself this morning. That was good, because Will craved company now. He wanted nothing more than to be in a warm, lighted room with Uncle Ben, Meg, and the others. Ariel danced along in front of them, circling back every time they set down the chest on the short flagstone path up to the Griffinage door.
“Almost there!” sang out Aunt Effie. “In the living room. That’s right.”
With a final clunk, they hefted the chest to the middle of the living room rug. Clouds of dust billowed and settled around their feet. Meg coughed and stared at Aunt Effie. Their mother never would have allowed such a dirty thing in the house. But Aunt Effie was not looking at the grime. She was looking at the chest with unabashed delight. Aunt Effie swiped the lid with the back of her sleeve to dislodge a mass of dust and grime. Then she stood back and admired her new possession, her blue shirtsleeve gone grey, her face as smudged as Ariel’s, with cobwebs trailing from her curly hair.
“From the manor,” Aunt Effie said majestically. She paused for a moment, plucked off a few strands of cobweb from her eyes, then cried: “To business! Grab a hammer from the hall closet, Meg. Let’s crack her open.”
“You mean you bought it and haven’t even looked inside?” said Will.
“Didn’t need to,” replied Aunt Effie. “It’s heavy as the dickens and came from the manor’s library. Books, the man said. The curator already looked it over and said there was no need to keep it anymore.”
Uncle Ben snuffed his way over to the dusty chest. He sneezed twice then growled at the unexpected object in the living room. Meg returned with the hammer.
“Quiet, Ben. No need to bark at books,” said Aunt Effie. “Thank you, Meg. Stand back, all of you. Ariel, over on the sofa.”
Ariel took up a position behind the cushions and covered her ears. Aunt Effie grasped the hammer and gave the lock a mighty whack. The lid cracked. It exposed a hiss of air and a slit of black. The moment the hammer struck, Uncle Ben made a wild leap, barking madly, as dust spiraled up. He landed on Aunt Effie’s reading lamp, which toppled off its table. Uncle Ben skidded across the floorboards, his nails screeching and collided into the armchair, still barking. Meg ducked. From the sofa, Ariel stood up and screamed. Will and Aunt Effie made a dash at Uncle Ben, but he was already bounding out the door as if pursuing a giant rabbit.
“Well, that’s better,” Aunt Effie said, a minute later when the din had died down. She righted the lamp and repositioned the armchair. From down the hall they could still hear a few low growls. “The disadvantages of having a large dog who gets excited about books. Now, then. Help me prise this up. Bound to be stiff after all these years.”
With Aunt Effie on the left and Will and Meg on the right, they pushed and strained until the slit widened and cracked along the sides. A new plume of dust arose as Aunt Effie tugged the lid wide open. Will coughed, and Meg’s eyes watered. Ariel sprang down from the sofa. All four peered into the chest at once.
The chest was filled with stacks of books, children’s books, the sort Meg and Will had never seen before. Carefully, Meg lifted out the top volume. Lessons for Children, the title read. That certainly looks dull, Meg thought. Beneath it she saw Pilgrim’s Progress and A Child’s History of England. The pages were thick and crinkly. The covers smelled like musty leather boots.
“Ahh,” said Aunt Effie with a long satisfied air. “What a treasure. Possibly some first editions in there.”
She picked out each volume and stacked them on the floor next to the chest. Nursery rhymes, fairy tales, Aesop’s fables, more books about being virtuous, and a child’s Bible. But when she rested her hand under the fourth layer of books, her fingers scraped against a wooden box.
“A box inside a box,” said Meg. “What is it?”
Without a word, Aunt Effie lifted out the smaller box. It had a small hinged latch, but no lock. Aunt Effie lifted the hasp. Nestled inside was a set of children’s
clothes: two tatted lace collars, a pinafore, and one indigo dress that shimmered in the afternoon light.
“Would you like some dress-up clothes, Ariel? A bit big for you, I think, but they might do,” said Aunt Effie.
Meg expected Ariel to turn down the offer of lacy princess clothes. At home, she never wore sparkly dresses, just pants, but instead Ariel nodded solemnly. “Kay Kay would like that,” she said.
Meg dug back in the chest again. She thought she’d seen another bundle of clothes in the space now vacated by the box, but instead her fingers hit upon something hard wrapped in a swath of green velvet.
“Wait, there’s more.” Meg lifted out the object and loosened one corner of the green cloth. Unblinking eyes stared back.
“It’s a doll!” cried out Ariel.
“So it is,” said Aunt Effie. “Must have been hidden under that box. Not all books after all. What a beauty!”
Meg unwrapped the doll swaddled in the velvet. It was a china doll with loose ringlets of black hair—real hair by the look of it—tumbling past her stiff shoulders. She had red-painted lips and rosy cheeks, somewhat chipped, on her hard face. Thin black eyebrows arched over the vacant blue eyes. Although the doll’s head and hands were made of china, she had a cloth body. The doll was about as long as a loaf of bread, with two little white cloth legs sticking out from under a bundle of blue skirts and white petticoats. Looking at the blank blue eyes, something about the doll made Meg shiver, and she quickly passed it over to Aunt Effie.
“Oooh, can I hold her?” asked Ariel.
“ ’Course not,” answered Meg. “It’s real china. You can’t play with a doll like this. It might break. People just set them on shelves—isn’t that right, Aunt Effie?”
“Yeah,” Will chimed in. “You can’t have it. It’s history. Like a museum thing.” Meg looked at him. Did Will feel the same aversion to the doll that she did? She couldn’t tell.
“Fiddlesticks,” said Aunt Effie. “Dolls are meant to be played with. If a museum gets it, it will end up on a shelf. No great historical value lost, I’m sure. It’s chipped, and there’s no doll makers’ mark. All the same, I’ll ring the curator to make sure he meant to let it go with the books. Meanwhile, would you like the doll, dearie?”
The Griffins of Castle Cary Page 6