“The sound it made when it hit the trees,” he murmured. “Do you think it might have been—”
“The sound that we heard in the car?” asked Oscar. “Yes! Of course, that’s what the scraping noise on the roof of the cab was – it was the branches of the trees catching the roof.”
Maximilian let out a sigh of relief. Every ghost so far was turning out to be something perfectly normal. So much for Agnes and her silly stories!
Feeling much braver, Maximilian let out a “come on then” miaow and set off towards Fawley Castle, shaking all thought of ghosts and creatures in the night from his paws and dashing on towards supper and a nice lie-down.
Fawley Castle, from the outside, looked to be just as Agnes had predicted. It was a great dark building with leaded-glass windows, screeching gargoyles along the guttering, and towers that bent over to peer at the ground in a most alarming way. Maximilian looked up at the roof with its tilting slates and thought it just the place for a midnight walk while listening to one of Oscar’s wonderful stories.
They wandered through the grounds, the gravel of the path crunching under-paw. The flowerbeds were surrounded by neat box hedges, and an assortment of trees cut into intricate topiary shapes decorated the lawns.
“What splendid grounds,” Oscar said, pausing to sniff at a jasmine flower. “They remind me of the garden where I saved the life of the Lord Chancellor when he was choking on a fishbone.”
Maximilian was about to ask how, when something caught his eye. At the end of one of the grand sweeping lawns was a curved building with nine stone pillars and arched windows. On the top was a great glass dome. The tip of Maximilian’s tail tingled, the way it did whenever there was a puzzle that he wanted to solve.
He dashed down the lawn towards the building, followed by Oscar. The closer they drew, the surer Maximilian was. From the smart revolving glass doors to the empty frames hung by the window, ready for posters or glamorous photos to be displayed in them, it was clear what this place was.
“How extraordinary,” murmured Oscar. “Do you think it really is?” Maximilian saw his friend’s glance flick upwards to the roof, where the glass dome bounced starlight back across the lawns.
“There’s only one way to find out,” said Maximilian.
A few minutes later and they were up on the roof, staring down through the dome. Maximilian had been right. Below them was a circular space with ten or so rows of seats, upholstered in a velvet so soft it shimmered in the night. On either side of the rather small stage a narrow twisting staircase led to a box just big enough for three or four people. There were swags of velvet hanging from the walls and golden lanterns hung around the room, their etched glass twinkling in the moonlight.
“A theatre!” Oscar gasped. “What an extravagance. It’s splendid. Rather small, but splendid.”
Maximilian looked at the stage. If this was where the company was to perform, then he suspected that Sylvia would be disappointed once she saw how little space she had to show off her dancing. It certainly was splendid of Lord Fawley to have his own theatre, though. He was about to say so when his tummy, thoroughly sick of being ignored, let out the loudest rumble it could.
“I rather think you should go in and find Sylvia and Agnes,” Oscar said.
Maximilian nodded. “What about you?”
Oscar waved a paw. “With this magnificent theatre all to myself and a veritable feast of voles and mice only a whisker away? I shall be quite comfortable.”
Maximilian grinned. He was glad to have his old friend with him on this adventure, and with a tiny version of the Theatre Royal to play in they would be quite at home. His tummy gave another warning rumble and he leapt from the roof and headed towards the castle.
Intricately carved, with a border of crescent moons and a brass knocker in the shape of a star, the doors to Fawley Castle were very beautiful.
They were also very shut.
Maximilian pressed his ear to the wood. He could hear muffled laughter and the pop of wine corks. He strained to hear Sylvia’s or Agnes’s voice. Surely they would not be enjoying a party when he was missing? Maximilian frowned. Why had they not come out to find him?
Still leaning against the castle doors, Maximilian was just pondering whether to try to find an open window, when he felt himself falling forwards. The cold marble of the floor rose to meet him as the door of the castle swung open and he was swept into the hall.
Fawley Castle’s entrance hall was a great cavern of a space. Cream stone arches rose to the roof past two sets of galleries, curving over to meet one another high above. Suits of armour lined the lower hall, and paintings and rich tapestries hung on the walls above. High up, suspended from the ceiling by a chain on which crystals shimmered, hung the largest chandelier Maximilian had ever seen, larger even than the one in the Theatre Royal. Maximilian smiled. This was evidently a place of deep feather pillows and comfortable velvet cushions, which was just the sort of place of which Maximilian approved.
The floor of the hall was glossy white marble, gleaming bright and very slippery under-paw. Maximilian clambered to his feet but soon found himself all at sea on the smooth surface and he was appalled to find himself sliding on his bottom the length of the hall and bumping his nose on the bottom of the stairs. Hearing a squeal of laughter behind him, he picked himself up with as much dignity as he could muster and stuck his tail in the air to show that some cats did not find that in the slightest bit amusing.
“Poor kitty,” said a girl’s voice, light and trilling. “I hope he hasn’t hurt himself.”
Maximilian glanced round, lifting a paw to rub at his bruised nose. He hoped that his whiskers were not bent out of shape. A broad-set middle-aged man with dark bushy hair and wearing a voluminous greatcoat and a hat with what looked like spectacles stretched over the top was standing in the doorway. Beside him stood a thin-faced girl of about eighteen. She wore the same ridiculous hat, but golden curls peeped out from beneath hers. The door behind them swung wide, letting the cold blast into the room.
The man stepped into the hall, put his fingers to his lips and let rip an ear-splitting (and most ungentlemanly) whistle that echoed around the vast space and set Maximilian’s hair on end. From a door to the side came a guffaw of laughter and a jovial-looking man with very spindly legs clad in tartan trousers of a most alarming shade of green came bowling out of a brightly lit room, his arms open wide for an embrace.
“Maurice Rorston, my old friend!” the man cried. “It’s been an age! Welcome, welcome! Did you come by car or is that ridiculous flying machine of yours tearing up one my lawns? The gardener almost banned me from inviting you.”
Ah, thought Maximilian. So this is who came in the aeroplane. And the man in the alarming tartan must be Lord Fawley, if they are his lawns.
The bushy-haired man laughed a deep-throated laugh. “My ‘ridiculous machine’, as you call it, is parked on the East Lawn, well away from the festivities, though I fear I may have trimmed some of the estate’s topiary on the way down.” He laughed again, although Maximilian could not see what was so very funny.
“And, Bunty, my dear girl,” said Lord Fawley to the young girl. “Why, you grow more beautiful every time I see you. You’re just in time for dinner. It’s a little late, but we waited as we wanted your company.”
Bunty put a hand up to pat her hair. “I … I haven’t time to dress,” she said, but Lord Fawley waved her objection aside.
“You look delightful. Arabella has been dying to see you. And I have a surprise treat for you. Now then, do you remember the old theatre that you and Arabella used to pester me to open as children? Well, after months of work cleaning out the cobwebs, and a little building work to make it safe, we have reopened the old place and a troupe from London’s Theatre Royal will be here to entertain you all.”
An odd silence fell over the pair. Maximilian preened. No doubt they were awestruck at the thought of being entertained by the Theatre Royal company. But when the girl finall
y spoke it was clear that she had not given the treat even a fleeting thought. She stared at Lord Fawley, her eyes widening. “Goodness, but what about…” Her voice died away as she began to blush a deep pink and motioned vaguely towards the end of the hall. Maximilian glanced over but all he could see was the wide sweeping staircase leading up to a balconied landing.
Lord Fawley laughed. “Oh, my dear girl, don’t tell me that you believe all that nonsense.”
“But Lady Celine—” Bunty began.
“Will not be bothering us, I assure you.”
The young girl bit her lip and glanced again at the staircase. Maximilian felt the tip of his tail tingle. Who was Lady Celine, and why was Bunty so worried about the theatre being used? Maximilian stared at the staircase, half expecting an angry, theatre-hating woman to storm down it and throw them all out, but instead Agnes and Sylvia arrived at the top and dashed down towards him.
“There you are, Max!” cried Sylvia. “We were so worried about you. Trust you to find your own way here, clever old puss.”
Maximilian pouted. He was still very disappointed in Sylvia. Why had she not stopped the car and come to get him? He drew himself up in a very dignified manner and began to groom his tail. It was alarmingly grubby from being dragged in the mud and he was painfully aware that he was not looking at all his best, and in front of strangers too. It was most mortifying.
“Oh, don’t sulk, old thing,” Sylvia said, crouching down to tickle his ears.
Maximilian was debating whether to ignore her or relent and be friends again when the dinner gong rang. All of a sudden the hall seemed full of people as the rest of the theatre company swept past, their feet clattering around Maximilian on the marble floor. Only Mrs Garland noticed him.
“What on earth has made Maximilian so muddy?” she demanded, looking sternly at Sylvia and Agnes. “A bath after dinner, I think.”
Maximilian’s blood ran cold and he set to his grooming with renewed vigour. Anything was better than a bath!
Cats, it seemed, were not welcome in the dining room, at least as far as the staff were concerned. Lord Fawley’s butler tried repeatedly to shoo Maximilian out, and a footman went so far as to give him a sly kick as he passed him on the way to the table with a platter full of delicious-smelling salmon. Maximilian was particularly partial to salmon and his tummy was feeling very empty, as he had failed to have either of his usual afternoon snacks.
“Maximilian goes everywhere we go,” Sylvia explained to Lord Fawley, beckoning Maximilian to sit by her feet.
Lord Fawley beamed at them amiably. “He reminds me of my grandmother’s cat, a wonderful beast called Edgar,” he said, and launched into a long story about an old cat that had once belonged to the family. Maximilian only half listened. Lord Fawley’s stories were not as interesting as Oscar’s.
“… and it took us forever to get it all out of his fur!” Lord Fawley finished. The company burst into obliging laughter.
Maximilian looked around the dining room. It was richly furnished in red velvet wallpaper and hung with ornate mirrors and old family portraits, but from where he sat by Sylvia’s feet under the huge dining table that ran the length of the room, all Maximilian could see was a sea of legs. At one end of the table were Lord Fawley’s feet, in rich-green dress shoes with silver buckles. Next to him were the dainty silver slippers of his daughter, Arabella. Arabella had endeared herself to Maximilian by making a great fuss of him when he sneaked into the dining room and secretly feeding him a slice of salmon under the table. She was a very pretty girl of seventeen, with dark, twinkling eyes and glossy black hair cut into a fashionable bob, and she had the most bewitching laugh. She talked to Sylvia and Agnes almost as though they were old friends, promised to show them all over the estate, and begged them to have late-night ghost stories in the library with her and Bunty “just like we did at boarding school”.
Maximilian weaved his way between the legs of the theatre company to sit by Bunty, who was asking Monsieur Lavroche question after question about the theatre and all the famous names who had appeared in his shows.
“We are all looking forward to working in Lord Fawley’s theatre, of course,” Monsieur Lavroche said gallantly. “The finest miniature theatre in England, I’m told.”
“It’s wonderful!” gushed Arabella. “I can’t wait for Saturday. I’ve wanted a Halloween ball for ages but Papa always said they were ghoulish. I’ve got the most heavenly dress, all the way from Paris, but I won’t tell you what I’m going as, because that would spoil the fun. We’re all to wear masks and remove them at midnight, and there’s to be a real French orchestra playing on the terrace, and ice sculptures in the rose garden, and fire jugglers around the ornamental lake, a spectacular ghost’s galleon, and a firework display…” She took a great gasp as she ran out of breath and then broke into giggles, blushing a pretty pink.
Bunty sneaked a tiny morsel of her beef to Maximilian and winked at him. He purred his thanks and sat attentively in case of any more titbits that Bunty should like to dispose of. Maximilian prided himself on his nose for people who were “good sorts”, and Bunty was definitely falling into that category. She “dropped” another morsel down to him and leaned closer to Monsieur Lavroche, so only he and Maximilian could hear what she said next.
“I do hope none of the ladies will be frightened by the story of Lady Celine’s ghost,” she whispered. “I would be terrified to set foot in that theatre myself.”
Maximilian’s ears pricked up at this. So Lady Celine was a ghost! But then why was Bunty so worried that she would come down the staircase?
Monsieur Lavroche laughed nervously and tugged at his cravat. “A ghost, you say? Well, no theatre is truly respectable without a ghost. Our own Theatre Royal has one, you know, though I’ve never seen him myself.”
Maximilian rolled his eyes. The humans were really very silly about the theatre ghost. Agnes refused to go into the costume store on her own because she thought she once saw it creeping up on her in the dark. Maximilian suspected the real reason was so she didn’t get trapped into helping Mrs Garland with any mending.
“Oh, but Lady Celine is different,” Bunty began. Maximilian noticed that although the girl had talked of being terrified, she did not look in the slightest bit afraid. She rather looked as though she was enjoying it all. “It’s all to do with her portrait…”
At this moment the footmen came round with the dessert, which was a delicious-looking creamy concoction. Maximilian wondered whether he should go back to Sylvia, who might be persuaded to share hers, but there was something about Bunty’s eagerness to tell Monsieur Lavroche about the ghost that made him curious. And what was all this about her portrait?
With the parfait to enjoy, however, Bunty said not a word more, so Maximilian weaved his way back to Sylvia, who did not disappoint.
The talk moved on to the plans for Arabella’s party. Monsieur Lavroche described the show that they were devising in her honour and exclaimed at length over how wonderful the costumes would be. Bunty patted the side of her mouth with a napkin and excused herself with a slight headache after the long journey. Maximilian miaowed his “if there is any cream left, I have space for a little more” miaow, but Sylvia was deep in conversation with Agnes, so he went out into the hallway to investigate the curious matter of the staircase.
Taking greater care on the slippery floor this time, he padded over and mounted the stairs. Close up, he could see that the carvings in the wooden panelling that had looked so intricate were hundreds of crescent moons entwining with one another. A row of stars ran along the banister. Maximilian bounded up the stairs, taking the left-hand side where they divided, and soon reached the landing. There was a long gallery that ran round above the hall, lit by lamps set into the walls. At the top of each side of the staircase stood a stone plinth holding a beautiful midnight-blue vase with stars and moons picked out in shimmering gold running round its rim and base.
On the landing above the staircase, behind
a stone balustrade, stood a sideboard of polished walnut. It was bare except for a silver candlestick at each end, but above it was a huge portrait stretching high up towards the vaulted ceiling of the hall. It was of a woman in a midnight-blue gown, flecked to look like velvet and spotted with tiny stars. Maximilian could almost feel the weight and softness of the cloth. It pooled in soft waves around the woman’s feet. Her dark hair was swept into elaborate coils, secured with a glittering tiara, and her eyes, sapphire blue and piercing, stared down under richly lashed lids. Maximilian glanced around at the other paintings down in the hall. Most of them were set against elaborate backdrops of country parks or elegant sitting rooms. But there was no background on the portrait of the woman. She was set against a mottled grey and blue canvas, so that she looked almost to be floating in the night sky.
As Maximilian was staring at the portrait, he heard footsteps behind him. He glanced round, but the hall was empty. The clinking sounds of coffee cups and port glasses floated up from the dining room. Maximilian leapt up on to the sideboard, his paws scrabbling a little on its highly polished surface, and scanned the hall, peering into the dark spaces in the galleries. He was the only living soul in the hall but still he could hear footsteps, and not above him but to the side, as though someone were pacing down the gallery. The sound grew closer and Maximilian felt his fur standing on end. He squinted into the shadows but there was no one there, only the “click, click” of the footsteps, growing louder with each step till they seemed to pass by him and die away.
Maximilian let out a tiny miaow, sprang from the sideboard and dashed down the stairs. He hit the marble floor at such speed that his back paws shot forwards between his front paws and he slid the length of the hall again, this time flat on his back, desperately waving his legs in the air and trying to steer with his tail.
The Phantom Portrait Page 2