Demelza & the Spectre Detectors

by Holly Rivers

  As they rode, Demelza filled Percy in on everything – the Dance with Death, Boris and Gregor, the ransom note, Grandma’s kidnapping – and by the time they’d reached the outskirts of Little Penhallow, Percy had forced her to come to a stop.

  ‘Demelza, this is terrible!’ he whimpered, jumping off the bicycle and distancing himself from his friend. He began to fiddle with the tassels of his long scarf, pulling at the bits of wool. ‘You have to tell someone about Ms Cardinal. We should go to the police immediately!’

  ‘NO!’ snapped Demelza. ‘I told you what it said on the ransom note. And besides, I’ve figured where we need to go to get help. It’s called the Quietus. It’s the Spectre Detectors’ headquarters. They’ll know what to do.’

  Percy groaned. ‘Oh, Demelza, not more weird ghostly stuff, please! This could be really dangerous. Why don’t we just go back to my house and telephone my dad? I know he’s a bit old fashioned but I’m sure he’ll underst—’

  ‘Your dad?’ interrupted Demelza, her body tight with anger. ‘Are you serious? What’s he going to be able to do to help? He probably doesn’t even believe in spectres!’ Demelza’s voice had risen considerably and she knew from Percy’s trembling chin that he was upset. She took a second to calm herself before talking again. ‘Look, I’m sorry for snapping, but this is my only hope. I have to get to the Quietus as soon as possible. Now, are you coming with me or not?’

  Percy shuffled nervously under Demelza’s gaze before nodding. ‘Yes, of course I am. Grandma Maeve needs us.’

  The pair hopped back on to the bicycle and Demelza looked into the front basket. ‘Are you OK in there, Lord Balthazar?’

  Lord Balthazar groaned. ‘Yes, but could you please cycle a little bit slower from now on? Going over pot holes at high speed is not conducive for a smooth ride, especially when one’s countenance is as prone to fractures as mine!’

  It didn’t take long to get to the village of Bury Rattlesborough, and when they reached the main street, Demelza stopped and looked around. It was a pokey-looking place, and apart from a handful of run-down shops and a dilapidated train station, it was almost deserted.

  ‘So, I’m pretty sure that we need to be somewhere around here,’ said Demelza, taking a pocket map from her satchel and unfolding it.

  ‘Doesn’t Lord Balthazar know where we’re going?’ asked Percy. ‘Surely he’s been to the Quietus before?’

  Demelza shook her head. ‘Talking Heads aren’t meant to leave their apprentice’s summoning chamber.’

  Lord Balthazar coughed. ‘The last time I had a social engagement, people were still travelling around by horse and carriage.’

  Demelza let her fingers trail along the red, vein-like roads before gazing up. ‘Ah, yes! Over there! I think I can see it.’

  She pointed to a narrow alleyway on the other side of the road that would have barely been visible if not for the eerie yellow glow of the solitary street lamp that still illuminated its threshold. An ancient-looking street sign hung above it, the place name only just visible through the rust.

  ‘The Quietus is down there?’ said Percy, his voice quaking.

  Demelza double-checked the address on the purple envelope and nodded. ‘Yup. That’s definitely it. Pitchfork Passage. Come on, let’s go.’

  Down the narrow alleyway they went, the weak morning light fading with every step they took. They crept past shadowy doorways and empty shop fronts, the air around them as thick and stale as a fog.

  ‘Oh, Demelza, I don’t like this,’ Percy said. ‘It’s horrible. I want to go home!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ agreed Lord Balthazar from the front basket of the bicycle. ‘This is not a place for an English lord! Besides, shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?’

  ‘School? Somersaulting synchrotrons! There are more important things to worry about right now,’ said Demelza. ‘Now buck up, the pair of you.’ But despite her brave words, Demelza’s heart was pounding fast.

  The children ventured on, and soon enough they were standing in the shadows of a dark gothic building. It was extremely tall and extremely narrow, almost as if it had been forced upwards by the two buildings either side of it. All of its windows had been blacked out with thick curtains and there was a skull-shaped knocker hanging from the front door.

  ‘I think we’re here,’ said Demelza, taking in every centimetre of the building. ‘This is the Quietus – it must be!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Percy, cowering behind her. ‘It doesn’t look like the kind of place that helps people. It looks like the kind of place where Dracula might try and suck your blood.’

  ‘I’m-I’m sure it’ll be different inside,’ Demelza replied, stepping forward. But even as the words came out of her mouth, she couldn’t help feeling an overwhelming sense of foreboding. She hadn’t been expecting a mug of hot milk and a cuddle on arrival, but this place definitely didn’t feel as welcoming as she’d hoped. What were they letting themselves in for?

  She stepped towards the door, and with a trembling hand rapped the skull-shaped knocker down hard. The sound of brass on brass echoed all around, bouncing off the brick walls like gunshots.

  Nothing happened for a moment, then all of a sudden a letterbox-shaped hatch in the door was pulled open, and a pair of pale eyes appeared through the darkness.

  ‘PASSWORD?’ came a deep, rasping voice.

  ‘Erm . . . Hello . . .’ muttered Demelza. ‘I wonder if you could help me please? My name’s Demelza Clock, and I—’

  ‘Password?’ interrupted the voice. ‘What’s the password?’

  Demelza shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘Well . . . I don’t know the password . . . but this is very important. I really need to—’

  The hatch was pulled shut, nearly trapping the tip of Demelza’s nose in the process.

  ‘Owww! Petrified pie charts!’ she cursed, giving the door a sharp kick.

  ‘Don’t you know the password?’ asked Percy. ‘Didn’t your grandma tell you?’

  ‘Grandma Maeve never mentioned it. I guess she was waiting for me to finish my apprenticeship. What could it be?’

  Percy swallowed. ‘Well, I know what I’d choose if I had to have a password. Something that I’d love to eat if I was allowed. Strawberry gateau! Or possibly Victoria sponge . . . no, treacle tart!’

  Demelza huffed. ‘Not everyone thinks with their stomachs, Percy. I doubt the most powerful Spectre Detectors in the country were thinking of pudding when they were putting their security measures in place.’ She looked to her bicycle basket. ‘Any ideas, Lord Balthazar?’

  The skull scoffed. ‘SOS?’

  Demelza rolled her eyes. She searched her mind, trying to recall any password that Grandma Maeve might have mentioned. Could it be the name of a famous spectre perhaps? Or an ingredient used in a summoning?

  She was just about to give minced blobfish brains a go, when she remembered what Grandma Maeve had rudely said to the woman guarding the entrance to the Dance with Death.

  ‘Well, what are you going to do?’ asked Percy.

  ‘MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!’ exclaimed Demelza.

  Percy’s face soured. ‘All right, grumpy pants, I was only asking . . .’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Demelza. She jumped to her feet and wrapped viciously on the door once more.

  ‘Mind your own business!’ she shouted as soon as the hatch was open. ‘The password is mind your own business!’

  CHAPTER 22

  Inside the Quietus

  The front door groaned open, and a bald, thickset spectre floated forward, an eerie yellow light radiating from behind him. He was so tall that his scalp nearly touched the lintel above, and his back was hunched, as if two large boulders were nestling beneath his tunic. ‘Enter,’ he grunted, and beckoned to the children with a bony white finger.

  With Percy at her heel and Lord Balthazar under her arm Demelza stepped inside and scampered to keep up with the doorman, who was already floating ahead with speed. He
led them through a labyrinth of candlelit corridors, each swarming with historical spectres of all shapes and sizes. There was a Bronze Age woman with plaited hair, an Ancient Egyptian pharaoh, and a medieval knight wielding sword and shield. Then came a salty sailor with a wooden leg and a Native American chief adorned with feathers. Further ahead a Victorian chimney sweep was busy cleaning one of the many fireplaces, whistling cheerfully as he worked.

  ‘Woooah!’ said Percy, his mouth wide open as he took it all in. ‘Real life ghosts!’

  Demelza gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs and glared.

  ‘Ouch!’ he moaned, rubbing his side. ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘Percy, we’re trying to get these people to help us,’ hissed Demelza. ‘They’re hardly going to cooperate if you’re gawping like you’re at a circus freak show! And I’ve told you before, it’s spectres, not ghosts.’

  ‘Keep up!’ shouted the doorman from ahead, and Demelza quickly picked up her pace, not wanting to get on his bad side.

  Before long they arrived at a large, circular hallway. Its walls were panelled with dark wood and the floor was tiled in purple, gold and black, with a large skull motif worked into the centre. Candles in little brass holders lined the walls, filling the space with a dim smoky glow, and narrow passages led off in every direction, like the beams of a shooting star.

  ‘Ahem!’

  A high-pitched cough came from across the floor and the children looked up. The spectre of a court jester was floating behind an ornate marble reception desk. He wore a diamond-patterned tunic, and a fool’s hat adorned with bells sat atop his head. A huge oil painting hung on the wall behind him, depicting a Spectral Sage from yesteryear holding a polished human skull. In front of him was a bowl of toffees wrapped in shiny papers that looked as though they might have been bought from Mr Barnabas’s shop.

  ‘May I help you?’ snapped the jester as the children approached. His voice was sharp and shrill, almost as if he was talking through his nostrils rather than out of his mouth. Demelza glanced down at the little placard on the desk, which bore the words Harry Le Quin – Duty Manager.

  ‘Erm . . . yes . . . hello, Mr Le Quin . . . sir,’ she said, trying to sound as assertive and grown-up as she could. ‘I’d like to see one of the Spectral Sages, please.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ replied Harry Le Quin. ‘The Sages are very busy people.’

  ‘Well . . . erm . . . no. But it’s very important that I speak with one. You see I—’

  ‘Your membership papers?’ interrupted the jester.

  Demelza gulped. ‘Oh, I don’t have any papers yet either. I’m still an apprentice, you see. But I have a Talking Head. Surely that proves I’m not an imposter. She held up Lord Balthazar who tilted forward in her hands.

  ‘Lord Balthazar III of Upper Loxworth at your service,’ he said.

  Le Quin rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ before opening the large record book in front of him. He dipped a fountain pen in gold ink, and poised the nib on the page. ‘The reason for your visit today?’

  ‘It’s an emergency,’ said Demelza. ‘Something awful has happened to my grandma and I need—’

  Harry Le Quin butted in sharply. ‘Does the emergency concern: a) an escaped spectre, b) a cracked crucible, c) a misplaced ghoulbox, or d) none of the above?’

  Demelza’s face dropped. This silly spectre obviously didn’t understand the severity of her situation at all. ‘None of the above!’ she blurted out. ‘My grandma’s been kidnapped!’

  The jester looked up from his notes, his lips pinched together as tight as a walnut. ‘Kidnapped?’ he scoffed. ‘Well, that is indeed unusual. Are you quite certain that she hasn’t just gone on holiday? Gone to get some peace and quiet?’ He leant forward and smiled coldly. ‘Emigrated to the Amazon, perhaps?’

  ‘No!’ snapped Demelza, her voice rising. ‘I’m eleven years old! She wouldn’t just go off on holiday without telling me. She’s been kidnapped!’

  Mr Le Quin sighed loudly and muttered something under his breath about not getting paid enough. ‘And what is your grandmother’s name?’

  ‘Catchpole. Maeve Catchpole.’

  The jester turned to a filing cabinet behind him and brought back a ledger emblazoned with the word ‘Members’. He began to fan through the pages until he got to a section headed with the letter ‘C’.

  ‘Clatworthy . . . Clements . . . Clinton,’ he muttered, trailing a calloused white finger down a list of names. ‘Carson . . . Caruthers . . . Ah, here we are, Catchpole, you say?’

  Demelza nodded, her body filling with hope. ‘Can you help?’

  Harry Le Quin took in the information written next to Grandma Maeve’s name and shook his head. ‘Well, unfortunately our records show that your grandmother hasn’t actually re-pledged her allegiance to the Quietus this quarter.’ The jester looked to the calendar on his desk. ‘You see, her correspondence should have arrived with us yesterday at the very latest. That was the deadline. And no pledge of allegiance means no contact with any of the Sages.’

  Demelza shook her head in disbelief. ‘But . . . that can’t be possible. Grandma Maeve’s been a member of the Quietus all her life. There has to be some kind of mistake.’

  The spectre shook his head. ‘According to our records, we’ve received nothing from your grandmother expressing her wish to continue being part of the Quietus. And no membership means no assistance. Now, I suggest that you and that self-important skull of yours toddle off before I call security.’

  Lord Balthazar let out a horrified harrumph. ‘Self-important? Now listen here, you brute. I am an esteemed member of the British nobility, I’ll have you know, and I will not tolerate some menial member of house-staff speaking to me in such a manner. Now let the girl see one of the Spectral Sages, at once!’

  Demelza looked at the jester wide-eyed and pleaded, ‘Please! I know my grandmother would have meant to re-pledge her allegiance. You have to trust me!’

  ‘Trust is something to be gained over time,’ said Harry Le Quin, looking down at his pocket watch. ‘And unfortunately for you I’m due on my break in five minutes.’ He slammed the members’ book shut, and the sound echoed around the circular hall like a clap of thunder. ‘Now, if that is all?’

  Percy, who had been loitering nervously behind his friend, whispered, ‘Come on, I think we should leave.’

  ‘No! They have to help us!’ said Demelza, her voice thickening. ‘Something must have happened to my grandma’s letter. Maybe it got filed away somewhere. Maybe it got lost in the—’ Demelza’s hand shot to her mouth and she froze. She felt the blood draining from her face. ‘No! No . . . this can’t be happening . . .’

  ‘Demelza, what’s wrong?’ asked Percy.

  Demelza started rummaging frantically through her satchel and from the very bottom she pulled out the plum-coloured envelope addressed to the Quietus that Grandma had asked her to post. She ripped it open, and there, written in her grandmother’s unmistakably swirly handwriting, was her pledge of allegiance. It hadn’t been lost at all. She had forgotten to post it!

  ‘Look, I have it here!’ said Demelza, waving the paper frantically at Harry Le Quin. ‘My grandma did mean for you to get it, but I forgot to post it. This is all my fault!’

  But Harry Le Quin shook his head. ‘Rules are rules, I’m afraid, and I cannot compromise our security measures, especially at this time of year.’ He rang a bell on the desk and the doorman appeared from the shadows. ‘Brutus will show you out.’

  ‘No!’ objected Demelza. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes, panic flooding through her. ‘You don’t understand! I have to see one of the Sages! I need to help Grandma Maeve!’

  As the gigantic doorman approached, Percy whispered, ‘Demelza, seriously, we need to go. Come on, we’ll think of another way to help your grandma, I promise.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Confronting Ms Cardinal

  ‘Are you sure you want to go and confront
your headmistress straight away?’ Percy called out from the back of Demelza’s bicycle. She was peddling back down Pitchfork Alley at the speed of light, her mind set on Stricton Academy. ‘Maybe you should calm down a bit.’

  ‘No!’ replied Demelza curtly. ‘I should have stood up to her right from the start. Ms Cardinal was acting suspiciously and I should have followed my gut instinct! Time’s running out!’

  Demelza peddled furiously, using every bit of power in her legs. She was livid – livid with Harry Le Quin, livid with the Quietus, but mainly livid with herself. Why hadn’t she just posted the bundle of letters when she’d been asked? There was no help available to Grandma Maeve from the Sages and it was all down to her. All of a sudden, guilt opened the floodgates to a thousand memories of the times she’d had with her grandmother and tears began to well in Demelza’s eyes, blurring her vision as if she were looking through a broken kaleidoscope.

  ‘Demelza . . .’ began Lord Balthazar from his spot in the front basket, but he was stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Not now, Lord Balthazar,’ Demelza snapped. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but I haven’t got time for your “I told you so”.’

  ‘I was just going to ask if you were all right,’ muttered the skull to himself, rejected. ‘Ufff! This day is going from bad to worse. It’s on par with the time that my valet mistook my double-breasted jacket for my tailcoat.’

  Demelza picked up the pace, and once they’d reached the grey school building she rested her bicycle against the railings. With the pupils already in lessons, the playground was completely empty. Percy looked up at the spiked turrets and gargoyles with a shudder.

  ‘Well, I never thought I’d say it,’ he said. ‘But maybe being kept at home with Fräulein von Winkle all this time wasn’t such a bad option after all. Is this place a school or a prison?’

  ‘Wait till you see inside,’ said Demelza. ‘I’ve seen dentist surgeries that are more inviting.’

  Percy looked back up at the tall, iron gates and rattled them. ‘But it’s all locked up. How are we going to get over? The last time I checked I was neither a spider nor a flying superhero.’