Witch Week (UK)

by Diana Wynne Jones

  “I do advise you all to keep quite close to me,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “You will only be invisible within ten yards of me.”

  “I can make myself invisible,” Brian’s voice said, from beside Chrestomanci’s dove-gray elbow. “I’m a witch too.”

  “Quite probably,” Chrestomanci agreed. “But I am not a witch, as it happens. I am an enchanter. And, among other differences, an enchanter is ten times as strong as a witch. Who is at the end of the line now? Charles. Charles, will you be good enough to walk up the steps to the door and ring the bell?”

  Charles trudged forward, towing the others behind him, and rang the bell. There seemed nothing else to do.

  The door was opened almost at once by the school secretary. Chrestomanci stood there, apparently alone, with his dove-gray suit quite unruffled and not a hair out of place, smiling pleasantly at the secretary. It was hard to believe that he had Brian gripped in one hand and Estelle clinging to the other, and three more people crowded uncomfortably around him. He bowed slightly.

  “Name of Chant,” he said. “I believe you were expecting me. I’m the inquisitor.”

  13

  THE SCHOOL SECRETARY dissolved into dither. She gushed. It was just as well. Otherwise she might have heard five gasps out of the air around Chrestomanci.

  “Oh, do come in, inquisitor,” the secretary gushed. “Miss Cadwallader is expecting you. And I’m awfully sorry—we seem to have got your name wrong. We were told to expect a Mr. Littleton.”

  “Quite right,” Chrestomanci said blandly. “Littleton is the regional inquisitor. But head office decided the matter was too grave to be merely regional. I’m the divisional inquisitor.”

  “Oh!” said the secretary, and seemed quite overawed. She ushered Chrestomanci in and through the tiled hall. Chrestomanci stepped after her, slow and stately, in a way that allowed plenty of time for everyone to squeeze around him into the hall and tiptoe beside him across the tiles. The secretary threw wide the door to Miss Cadwallader’s study. “Mr. Chant, Miss Cadwallader. The divisional inquisitor.” Chrestomanci went into the study even more slowly, lugging Brian and pulling Estelle. Nan and Nirupam squeezed after, and Charles just got in too by jamming himself against the doorpost as the secretary backed reverently out. He did not want to be left outside the circle of invisibility.

  Miss Cadwallader sprang forward in a quite unusual flutter and shook hands with Chrestomanci. The rest of them heard Brian thump away sideways as Chrestomanci let go of him. “Oh, good morning, inquisitor!”

  “Morning, morning,” said Chrestomanci. He seemed to have gone vague again. He looked absently around the room while he was shaking hands. “Nice place you have here, Miss—er—Cudwollander.”

  This was true. Perhaps on the grounds that she had to persuade government officials and parents that Larwood House was a really good school, Miss Cadwallader had surrounded herself in luxury. Her carpet was like deep crimson grass. Her chairs were purple clouds of softness. She had marble statues on her mantelpiece and large gilt frames around her hundred or so pictures. She had a cocktail cabinet with a little refrigerator built into it and a coffeemaker on top. Her hi-fi and tape deck took up most of one wall. Charles looked yearningly at her vast television with a crinoline doll on top. It seemed years since he had watched any television. Nan gazed at the wall of bright new books. Most of them seemed to be mystery stories. She would have loved to have a closer look at them, but she did not dare let go of Nirupam or Charles in case she never found them again.

  “I’m so glad you approve, inquisitor,” fluttered Miss Cadwallader. “My room is entirely at your disposal, if you wish to use it to interview children in. I take it that you will need to interview some of the children in 6B?”

  “All the children in 6B,” Chrestomanci said gravely, “and probably all their teachers too.” Miss Cadwallader looked thoroughly dismayed by this. “I shall expect to interview everyone in the school before I’m through,” Chrestomanci went on. “I shall stay here for as long as it takes—weeks, if necessary—to get to the bottom of this matter.”

  By this time, Miss Cadwallader was distinctly pale. She clasped her hands nervously. “Are you sure it’s that serious, inquisitor? It is only a boy in 6B who disappeared in the night. His father happens to be one of our teachers here, which is really why we’re so concerned. I know you were told that the boy left a large number of notes accusing a witch of abducting him, but the police have telephoned since to say they have found a camp in the forest with the boy’s scent on it. Don’t you think the whole thing could be cleared up quite easily and quickly?”

  Chrestomanci gravely shook his head. “I have been kept abreast of the facts too, Miss—er—Kidwelly. The boy has still not turned up, has he? One can’t be too careful in a case like this. I think someone in 6B knows more about this than you think.”

  Up to now, everyone listening had been feeling more and more relieved. If Miss Cadwallader had known there were four other people missing besides Brian, she would surely have said so. But their feelings changed at what Miss Cadwallader said next.

  “You must interview a girl called Theresa Mullett straightaway, inquisitor, and I think you will find that the matter will be cleared up at once. Theresa is one of our good girls. She came to me during break and told me that the witch is almost certainly a child called Dulcinea Pilgrim. Dulcinea is not one of our good girls, inquisitor, I’m sorry to say. Some of her journal entries have been very free-spoken and disaffected. She questions everything and makes jokes about serious matters. If you like, I can send for Dulcinea’s journal and you can see for yourself.”

  “I shall read all the journals in 6B,” said Chrestomanci, “in good time. But is this all you have to go on, Miss—er—Collander? I can’t find a girl a witch simply on hearsay and a few jokes. It’s not professional. Have you no other suspects? Teachers, for instance—”

  “Teachers here are all above suspicion, inquisitor.” Miss Cadwallader said this very firmly, although her voice was a little shrill. “But 6B as a class are not. It is a sad fact, inquisitor, in a school like this, that a number of children come to us as witch-orphans, having had one or both parents burned. There are an unusual number of these in 6B. I would pick out, for your immediate attention, Nirupam Singh, who had a brother burned, Estelle Green, whose mother is in prison for helping witches escape, and a boy called Charles Morgan, who is almost as undesirable as the Pilgrim girl.”

  “Dear me! What a poisonous state of affairs!” said Chrestomanci. “I see I must get down to work at once.”

  “I shall leave you this room of mine to work in then, inquisitor,” Miss Cadwallader said graciously. She seemed to have recovered from her flutter.

  “Oh, I can’t possibly trouble you,” Chrestomanci said, quite as graciously. “Doesn’t your deputy head have a study I could use?”

  Intense relief shone through Miss Cadwallader’s stately manner. “Yes, indeed he does, inquisitor. What an excellent idea! I shall take you to Mr. Wentworth myself, at once.”

  Miss Cadwallader swept out of her room, almost too relieved to be stately. Chrestomanci located Brian as easily as if he could see him, took his arm, and swept off after her. The other four were forced to tiptoe furiously to keep up. None of them wanted to see Mr. Wentworth. In fact, after what Miss Cadwallader had just said, the one thing they all longed to do was to sneak off and run away again. But the instant they got more than ten yards away from Chrestomanci, there they would be, in riding clothes, little blue shorts, and pink balldress, for Miss Cadwallader or anyone else they passed to see. That was enough to keep them all tiptoeing hard, along the corridors and up the stairs.

  Miss Cadwallader rapped on the glass of Mr. Wentworth’s study. “Come in!” said Mr. Wentworth’s voice. Miss Cadwallader threw the door open and made ushering motions to Chrestomanci. Chrestomanci nodded vaguely and once more made a slow and imposing entry, with a slight dragging noise as he pulled the resisting Brian through the d
oorway. That gave the other four plenty of time to slip inside past Miss Cadwallader.

  “I’ll leave you with Mr. Wentworth for now, inquisitor,” Miss Cadwallader said, in the doorway. Mr. Wentworth, at that, looked up from his schedules. When he saw Chrestomanci, his face went pale, and he stood up slowly, looking thoroughly harrowed. “Mr. Wentworth,” said Miss Cadwallader, “this is Mr. Chant, who is the divisional inquisitor. Come to my study for sherry before lunch, both of you, please.” Then obviously feeling she had done enough, Miss Cadwallader shut the door and went away.

  “Good morning,” Chrestomanci said politely.

  “G—good morning,” said Mr. Wentworth. His hands were trembling and rustling the schedules. He swallowed, loudly. “I—I didn’t realize there were divisional inquisitors. New post, is it?”

  “Oh, do you not have divisional ones?” Chrestomanci said. “What a shame. I thought it sounded so imposing.”

  He nodded. Everybody was suddenly visible again. Nan, Charles, and Nirupam all tried to hide behind one another. Brian was revealed tugging crossly to get his arm loose from Chrestomanci, and Estelle was hanging on to Chrestomanci’s other hand again. She let go hurriedly and took her hard hat off. But it was quite certain that Mr. Wentworth did not notice any of these things. He backed against the window, staring from Chrestomanci to Brian, and he was more than harrowed now: he was terrified.

  “What’s going on?” he said. “Brian, what have you lent yourself to?”

  “Nothing,” Brian said irritably. “He isn’t an inquisitor. He’s an enchanter or something. It’s not my fault he’s here.”

  “What does he want?” Mr. Wentworth said wildly. “I haven’t anything I can give him!”

  “My dear sir,” said Chrestomanci, “please try and be calm. I only want your help.”

  Mr. Wentworth pressed back against the window. “I don’t know what you mean!”

  “Yes, you do,” Chrestomanci said pleasantly. “But let me explain. I am Chrestomanci. This is the title that goes with my post, and my job is controlling witchcraft. My world is somewhat more happily placed than yours, I believe, because witchcraft is not illegal there. In fact, this very morning I was chairing a meeting of the Walpurgis Committee, in the middle of making final arrangements for the Halloween celebrations, when I was rather suddenly summoned away by these pupils of yours—”

  “Is that why you’re wearing those beautiful clothes?” Estelle asked admiringly.

  Everyone winced a little, except for Chrestomanci, who seemed to think it was a perfectly reasonable question. “Well, no, to be quite honest,” he said. “I like to be well dressed, because I am always liable to be called elsewhere, the way you called me. But I have to confess that I have several times been fetched away in my dressing gown, in spite of all my care.” He looked at Mr. Wentworth again, obviously expecting him to have calmed down by now. “There are real problems with this particular call,” he said. “Your world is all wrong, in a number of ways. That’s why I would appreciate your help, sir.”

  Unfortunately, Mr. Wentworth was by no means calm. “How dare you talk to me like this!” he said. “It’s pure blackmail! You’ll get no help from me!”

  “Now that is unreasonable, sir,” Chrestomanci said. “These children are in acute trouble. You are in the same trouble yourself. Your whole world is in even greater trouble. Please, try if you can, to forget that you have been scared for years, both for yourself and Brian, and listen to the questions I am going to ask you.”

  But Mr. Wentworth seemed unable to be reasonable. Nan looked at him sorrowfully. She had always thought he was such a firm person up till now. She felt quite disillusioned. So did Charles. He remembered Mr. Wentworth’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into detention. He had thought that hand had been shaking with anger, but he realized now that it had been terror.

  “It’s a trick!” Mr. Wentworth said. “You’re trying to get a confession out of me. You’re using Brian. You are an inquisitor!”

  Just as he said that, there was a little tap at the door, and Miss Hodge came brightly in. She had just given 6B an English lesson—the last one until next Tuesday, thank goodness! Naturally, she had noticed that four other people besides Brian were now missing. At first, she had assumed that they were all being questioned by the inquisitor. They were the obvious ones. But then someone in the staff room had remarked that the inquisitor still hadn’t come. Miss Hodge saw at once that this was the excuse she needed to go to Mr. Wentworth and start sympathizing with him about Brian. She came in as soon as she had knocked, to make quite sure that Mr. Wentworth did not get away again.

  The room for an instant seemed quite full of people, and poor Mr. Wentworth was looking so upset and shouting at what seemed to be the inquisitor after all. The inquisitor gave Miss Hodge a vague look and then waved his hand, just the smallest bit. After that, there did only seem to be the inquisitor and Mr. Wentworth in the room besides Miss Hodge. But Miss Hodge knew what she had seen. She thought about it while she said what she had come to say.

  “Oh, Mr. Wentworth, I’m afraid there are four more people missing from 6B now.” And the four people had all been here in the room, Miss Hodge knew. Wearing such peculiar things too. And Brian had been there as well. That settled it. Mr. Wentworth might look upset, but he was not sorrowing about Brian. That meant that she either had to think of some other way to get his attention, or use the advantage she knew she had. The man who was supposed to be an inquisitor was politely putting forward a chair for her to sit in. A smooth villain. Miss Hodge ignored the chair. “I think I’m interrupting a witches’ Sabbath,” she said brightly.

  The man with the chair raised his eyebrows as if he thought she was mad. A very smooth villain. Mr. Wentworth said, in a strangled sort of way, “This is the divisional inquisitor, Miss Hodge.”

  Miss Hodge laughed, triumphantly. “Mr. Wentworth! You and I both know that there’s no such thing as a divisional inquisitor! Is this man annoying you? If so, I shall go straight to Miss Cadwallader. I think she has a right to know that your study is full of witches.”

  Chrestomanci sighed and wandered away to Mr. Wentworth’s desk, where he idly picked up one of the schedules. Mr. Wentworth’s eyes followed him as if Chrestomanci was annoying him very much, but he said, in a resigned way, “There’s absolutely no point in going to Miss Cadwallader, Miss Hodge. Miss Cadwallader has known I’m a witch for years. She takes most of my salary in return for not telling anyone.”

  “I didn’t know you—!” Miss Hodge began. She had not realized Mr. Wentworth was a witch too. That made quite a difference. She smiled more triumphantly than before. “In that case, let me offer you an alliance against Miss Cadwallader, Mr. Wentworth. You marry me, and we’ll both fight her.”

  “Marry you?” Mr. Wentworth stared at Miss Hodge in obvious horror. “Oh no. You can’t. I can’t—”

  Brian’s voice said out of the air, “I’m not having her as a mother!”

  Chrestomanci looked up from the schedules. He shrugged. Brian appeared on the other side of the room, looking as horrified as Mr. Wentworth. Miss Hodge smiled again. “So I was right!” she said.

  “Miss Hodge,” Mr. Wentworth said, shakily trying to sound calm and reasonable, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t marry anyone. My wife is still alive. She was arrested as a witch, but she managed to get away through someone’s backyard and get to the witches’ rescue service. So you see—”

  “Well, you’d better pretend she was burned,” Miss Hodge said. She was very angry. She felt cheated. She marched up to Mr. Wentworth’s desk and took hold of the receiver of Mr. Wentworth’s telephone. “You agree to marry me, or I ring the police about you. Now.”

  “No, please—!” said Mr. Wentworth.

  “I mean it,” said Miss Hodge. She tried to pick the receiver up off the telephone. It seemed to be stuck. Miss Hodge jiggled it angrily. It gave out a lot of tinkling, but it would not seem to move. Miss Hodge looked around to find Chr
estomanci looking at her in an interested way. “You stop that!” she said to him.

  “When you tell me one thing,” Chrestomanci said. “You don’t seem at all alarmed to find yourself in a roomful of witches. Why not?”

  “Of course I’m not,” Miss Hodge retorted. “I pity witches. Now will you please allow me to ring the police about Mr. Wentworth? He’s been deceiving everyone for years!”

  “But my dear young lady,” said Chrestomanci, “so have you. The only sort of person who would behave as you do must be a witch herself.”

  Miss Hodge stared at him haughtily. “I have never used a spell in my life,” she said.

  “A slight exaggeration,” Chrestomanci said. “You used one small spell, to make sure no one knew you were a witch.”

  Why didn’t I think of that? Charles wondered, watching the look of fear and dismay grow in Miss Hodge’s face. He was very shaken. He could not get used to the idea that his second witch had probably been Brian’s mother.

  Miss Hodge once more jiggled the telephone. It was still stuck. “Very well,” she said. “I’m not afraid of you. You can disable all the phones in the school if you like, but you won’t stop me going and telling everyone I meet about you and Mr. Wentworth and Brian, and the other four, unless Mr. Wentworth agrees to marry me this instant. I think I shall start with Harold Crossley.” She made as if to turn away and leave the room. It was clear she meant it.

  Chrestomanci sighed and put one finger down on the schedule he was holding, very carefully and precisely, in the middle of one of the rectangles marked Miss Hodge 6B. And Miss Hodge was not there anymore. The telephone gave out a small ting, and she was gone. At the same moment, Nan, Estelle, Nirupam, and Charles all found themselves visible again. It was clear to them that Miss Hodge was not just invisible in their place. The room felt empty of her, and a small gust of wind ruffling the papers on Mr. Wentworth’s desk seemed to prove she was gone.