“Oh, Max, you are silly!” cried Sylvia, coming from the dining room arm in arm with Agnes. Maximilian spun to a stop at her feet and righted himself, flicking his tail in annoyance. Really! Why was it that humans were able to appear the minute a cat was looking his worst?
Lord Fawley chuckled as he passed by and muttered something that sounded like “just like Grandmother’s old cat”.
“We’ll say goodnight then, Lord Fawley,” said Monsieur Lavroche, beaming from ear to ear. “Up bright and early for rehearsals, everyone.”
The company groaned good-naturedly. A small army of maids and footmen appeared as if from nowhere to escort them to their rooms.
Arabella walked up with Sylvia and Agnes. At the top of the stairs they paused and Agnes pointed to the portrait of the woman in the blue gown.
“She is so beautiful.”
“That’s Lady Celine, the wife of the first Lord Fawley, who built the theatre,” Arabella said. “He loved his theatre but Lady Celine thought it was common. She hated seeing him waste all his money on it, even selling her precious jewels to pay for an extension on it, so one night she had her revenge.”
Arabella’s voice had sunk to a whisper and her eyes twinkled with excitement. Agnes and Sylvia leaned close, their faces agog.
“On the night before the grand opening, when His Lordship had invited half the county down and had bought in theatricals from London to entertain them, Lady Celine crept out in the dead of night and set fire to the theatre. She was caught in the blaze and died. The first Lord Fawley was so heartbroken that he closed the theatre for good.”
“How terrible!” shuddered Sylvia.
“That’s not the half of it,” Arabella said. “The night she died, her most precious tiara disappeared. The Moonrise.”
She pointed up to the portrait. On top of the woman’s dark curls sat a tiara of crescent moons, each larger than its neighbour. In the centre was a full moon, a single sparkling diamond. Arabella sighed. “It should come to me on my eighteenth birthday, but they say that Lady Celine’s ghost took it to protect it from Lord Fawley. It’s all nonsense. It probably just got sold with the other jewels. But it’s a delicious thought that it’s still in the house somewhere, protected by Lady Celine’s ghost. Of course, there are some who say that it is too dangerous to open the theatre again, but that’s all nonsense too.”
“What is?” asked Agnes.
Arabella grinned, but what she said next did not sound very funny. She looked at Agnes, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
“That portrait is meant to bear a family curse,” she said. “They say that if the theatre is ever opened again, Lady Celine will come down from it and haunt whoever dares to perform there.”
“Well, I agree with Arabella,” said Sylvia once she had closed the door to the bedroom that she and Agnes had been given. “It’s nonsense. A cursed portrait? Utter piffle.”
Agnes flopped down on to the nearest bed and wrapped herself in a warm raspberry wool blanket. She shivered. “What if it’s not?”
Maximilian jumped up beside her and nuzzled his soft head against her hand. He was inclined to agree with Sylvia. Cursed portraits! Humans would believe anything. The story of Lady Celine solved one tiny mystery, however. It explained why Bunty had glanced so nervously towards the staircase. It must have been the portrait she was thinking of.
Sylvia was far more sensible, as usual. “Oh, Agnes, look at the place!” she laughed. “Does it look like a haunted ruin?” She waved her hand around the room. It was beautifully done out in delicate pinks and creams, and someone had left a bunch of violets on each of their bedside tables. The comfortable beds were a far cry from the rather knobbly-looking ancient furniture in the castle hall, and there was even an ample armchair with plump cushions that would, Maximilian thought, be a perfect sleeping spot for a cat who liked such things.
“Well, I’m locking the door every night,” Agnes muttered. “I’m not having some ghost after me just because we opened up her silly theatre.”
Maximilian rolled his eyes. He left Agnes to her sulk and padded across the room. A short leap and he was looking out of the leaded-glass window across the lawns of the castle to Lord Fawley’s theatre. The moon was out in full and the glass dome glinted in the moonlight. On the top sat a black cat, listening to the sounds of the night.
After breakfast the next day Lord Fawley led the company across the lawn. Monsieur Lavroche was in his element, gushing about what a treat it would be to perform in a genuine miniature theatre. Mrs Garland had taken her notebook out of her tapestry bag and was counting off the boxes that she hoped had been delivered safely. Maximilian wound himself round her ankles, miaowing his “don’t worry, nothing will have been forgotten” miaow.
At the door to the theatre Lord Fawley drew from his waistcoat pocket what looked like a silver pencil. He winked at Agnes and pressed a button on the end. With a gentle click three diamond-studded moons spun out of the end and snapped into place.
“It’s the secret key,” Lord Fawley whispered. “I had it fashioned especially.”
Agnes clapped her hands with delight. Lord Fawley turned the key in the lock, swept open the door and led them into a circular room of midnight blue and silver. The ceiling and carpet were peppered with quarter moons and the chandelier that hung above their heads was shaped like a huge constellation of stars in cut glass. At the end of the lobby carved wooden doors led into the main theatre.
“So many stars,” Sylvia breathed, gazing at the ceiling.
Lord Fawley smiled. “The theatre was built over a hundred years ago,” he said. “The first Lord Fawley styled it on the night sky in honour of his wife, Lady Celine. Celine is the name of a goddess of the moon. You’ll see moons all over the castle if you look carefully.”
He led them through to the auditorium where the company explored gleefully, with Agnes squealing with delight over each new discovery. Maximilian saw Sylvia biting her lip at the size of the stage and knew that he had been right to suspect she would find it too small to show off her dancing. Mrs Garland made a beeline for backstage to check on her costumes and props. Miss Julier settled herself into the mini pit at the front of the stage and flexed her arms as if conducting a small orchestra. The men of the chorus took flying leaps over her head to the stage and broke out into an improvised dance. As the laughter of the company filled the space, Maximilian looked upwards to the dome, where Oscar’s face peered down over them. He whisked his tail in greeting and went to join his friend.
“Cursed?” Oscar said.
Maximilian nodded. “A haunted portrait, apparently, and a mysterious missing tiara.”
“Sounds like just the right atmosphere for a Halloween party,” said Oscar. “Did I ever tell you about when I saw the ghost of a pterodactyl on the top of the Natural History Museum?”
Maximilian smiled. If only the humans had Oscar’s stories to listen to, Arabella’s party would be bound to be a success. He settled down to enjoy another while the theatre company practised below them.
It was about six o’clock when the first fat drops of rain fell on to the roof of the theatre and the early-evening sky began to darken with the threat of a downpour. Maximilian and Oscar hurried down from the roof to take shelter. The doors were ajar and, leaving Oscar enjoying the sight of the rain from the comfort of the porch, Maximilian slipped inside to see the rehearsal in full swing.
Monsieur Lavroche had created a brand-new show in honour of Arabella’s birthday, to fit perfectly with the Halloween ball. It was about a young village maiden cursed by a witch, and the ghost of a handsome farmer who helped her break the curse. Agnes was playing the young maiden and the final song was the perfect opportunity for her to show off her lovely singing voice. Sylvia would be dancing the part of the ghostly young farmer, her glossy hair tucked away under a cap and a moustache painted over her top lip.
Everyone except Agnes was up on the stage, where Sylvia was working through how she could do nine pirouette
s without falling into the orchestra pit. She had just turned lightly on her toes for the sixth time when the lights of the theatre flickered, making her miss her step. Miss Julier, the company’s chorus mistress and choreographer, puckered her brow and tutted at the interruption.
“There must be a storm brewing,” she said.
“Unless…” whispered Agnes, her eyes wide.
Sylvia frowned at her. “Oh, don’t start that haunting nonsense again, Agnes,” she sighed.
The lights flickered on and off again. Sylvia shrugged and resumed her dance, but Agnes sat bolt upright on her seat in the front row, her ears straining for the slightest sound.
For a few moments the only sounds to be heard were the tinkling of the piano accompanying Sylvia’s dance and the gentle thud of Sylvia’s feet as she leapt across the stage. Agnes was leaning back in her chair when there was a terrific crash and a sound of thumping from the roof of the theatre. The chandelier that hung above the theatre stalls shook as something pounded on the roof. Agnes screamed and even Sylvia began to look alarmed. Maximilian padded down the rows of seats to spring up on to Agnes’s lap.
Outside, the rain hammered down still harder. The sky darkened and there was a rumble of thunder. “You see,” said Miss Julier crisply. “It really is just a storm. Now, back to work, Sylvia.”
Onstage, Sylvia smoothed the front of her dress and prepared to dance again.
And then Agnes shrieked and pointed up to the dome of the theatre, her mouth open in horror. All eyes followed to where she was pointing.
On the roof, staring down through the glass dome, was a dark figure in a long flowing dress. Its hair thrashed around wildly in the wind. There was a flash of lightning and the sky lit up, revealing a ghastly, pale face, eyes hollowed and black, the mouth a gash of red, twisted back in a snarl of hate. Agnes screamed again and in a moment the theatre was full of shouts and the thunder of feet as the company ran from the stage. One of the chorus grabbed Sylvia’s hand and dragged her towards the wings. Miss Julier motioned desperately for everyone to keep calm. The lightning flashed again and the figure on the roof disappeared from sight.
Maximilian leapt from Agnes’s lap and dashed down the aisle, out into the porch. Outside, thunder was rumbling across the sky and the rain was beating down so hard in the twilight that it was difficult to see. Maximilian called out for Oscar, but there was no reply.
He set off for the side of the theatre and clambered up the tendrils of an ivy stem that snaked up to the roof. The storm had made the stem slippery and the rain beat down into his eyes, blinding him. He was reaching out for a paw-hold in the ivy when the sky was torn apart by a thunderclap so loud it felt like the theatre was shaking, and the scrap of ivy Maximilian clung to tore away from the wall. With a miaow of terror Maximilian clawed at the stem, but with the rain falling full pelt into his eyes it was impossible to find a safe paw-hold. He fell, the blood rushing to his ears. The world went silent for a moment and then Maximilian felt his leg clasped and his paw pushed firmly into a net of intertwined leaves. Maximilian dangled, breathless, from the side of the building and squinted upwards into the night. There was a flash of lightning, illuminating a black cat and one bright-green orb of an eye.
Maximilian gritted his teeth and hauled his way up. He was full of thank-yous, but too breathless to get them out. Oscar patted him on the shoulder and motioned across the roof. The lightning flashed again, glinting off the glass of the dome. The shadowy figure was nowhere to be seen.
“How long have you been here?” Maximilian gasped. “Did you see who it was?”
Oscar shook his head. “I took the liberty of dashing up when that young lady – Agnes, is it? Well, when she screamed. It must have taken me seconds at most, but…”
He waved a paw once more, taking in the empty roof before them. Maximilian’s eyes were adjusting to the gloom. It had been a very peculiar evening, but one thing was clear. There was nobody else on the roof of the theatre.
After dinner the company gathered in the library. The wood-panelled walls, and shelves lined with leather-bound volumes, made the room dark, but in the huge fireplace of polished slate a hearty fire had been lit. The logs crackled and spat as they burned, the flames sending flickering shadows creeping across the walls. The lamps were turned down low and what light they gave out was quickly swallowed up by the thick tapestry curtains drawn across the library alcoves to keep in the warmth.
Maximilian was curled up on one of the deep-cushioned sofas between Agnes and Sylvia, warming his toes in the heat of the fire and hoping that no one would notice how grubby his paws were. Mrs Garland seemed to have entirely forgotten the issue of the bath, and he wanted to keep it that way. Across from them sat Bunty and Arabella, wrapped up together in one large throw. After what had happened, the company could talk of nothing but the theatre ghost and before Maximilian could say “no one gave me a second helping of salmon tonight”, there were ghost stories in the air.
Agnes, once again, told everyone about seeing the Theatre Royal ghost in the costume store. One of the chorus declared he had met the spectre of his uncle late at night coming out of a tavern. Mrs Garland thought she “might” have seen something strange in an opera house once but she could not recall where. Only Miss Julier and Sylvia remained sceptical.
“And now it seems we have woken Lady Celine,” said a voice from the corner of the room. A figure uncurled itself from a leather wing chair and Lord Rorston stepped into the light of the fire. Agnes was so startled that she dropped the cushion she had been hiding behind, and Bunty gave a little gasp.
“Papa, I thought you had gone to bed!” she cried.
Lord Rorston motioned towards a square box brimming with rolls of paper and parchments tied up with twine. “Working late, my dear.”
Bunty turned to Sylvia and Agnes. “Papa is something of an amateur historian,” she explained.
“All our frightful old family papers are in that box,” Arabella joined in. “Uncle Maurice is going to turn them into a history of the Fawleys that only the Fawleys will ever read.”
She laughed, but Bunty looked dignified. “I’m sure that it will be most interesting once it is finished. Papa is taking great care with it all.”
Arabella looked apologetic. “I didn’t mean to be rude, Bunts,” she said. “I just meant that … well, Uncle Maurice, even you must agree that the mouldy old Fawleys aren’t as interesting as the ghostly tales we’ve been telling this evening.”
Lord Rorston smiled at her.
“Fascinating tales,” he smiled. “They distracted me from my work. All this talk of ghouls did make me wonder about our family spirit, however. As I said, have we woken the Viscountess?”
Bunty’s eyes widened. “Oh, Papa! What if you are right?” She turned to Agnes. “After all, you did see her at the theatre and that’s where she is said to appear.”
Maximilian thought that if Bunty was trying to frighten Agnes, she was going the right way about it. Agnes’s eyes were as big as saucers.
Lord Rorston yawned and stretched. “Well, it’s very late and I think I shall retire to bed. Bunty, I think you should be turning in too.” He gave a gallant bow to the company, gathered his papers into the box and motioned for Bunty to follow him. Maximilian stared after the two of them, in deep conversation as they headed for the library door, and he felt the tip of his tail tingling. The Rorstons both seemed very eager to make everyone believe in the theatre ghost. He wondered why.
“Ransacked!” cried Sylvia, throwing her arms up in the air. Agnes stood behind her, her mouth open with shock. It was the next morning and the company had just entered their dressing rooms to find them in a state of complete disarray. Drawers had been pulled out, the contents strewn across the floor. Costumes had been ripped from hangers. One of the locked cabinets had been forced open.
“Who would do this?” Agnes said, tears springing to her eyes. Then she froze and grabbed at Sylvia’s arm. “Oh, Sylvia, you don’t think it’s her, do
you?”
Maximilian rolled his eyes. So did Sylvia.
“Not your mouldy old ghost again, Agnes? No, frankly, I don’t think it’s her.”
Agnes sulked. “Well, who then?”
Maximilian sniffed the air. There was a strong smell of roses and something tingled in the tip of his tail. One thing he was sure of, ghosts did not use perfume. Whoever had turned the theatre over had been very human. But why? After his recent adventure foiling a daring jewel thief his mind went instantly to theft, but what could be worth stealing in an old theatre? Surely a competent thief would head for the castle itself, which was bound to be stuffed full of Arabella’s jewels. It was very curious.
The company set to tidying up, a task that was made more than usually trying for Sylvia by Agnes insisting on stopping every five minutes to declare that she was sure she had “heard something” or “felt a ghostly presence”. Eventually they had everything tidy again, and after lunch (pilchard sandwiches, which Sylvia was very generous with) Maximilian went to join Oscar, and the two of them spent the rest of the day “voling” in the woods behind the rose garden. Oscar caught three and Maximilian only one, but since Maximilian knew that he would be able to sneak a little salmon at supper that evening, this was considered fair. When the clock on the West Tower of the castle struck seven o’clock, Maximilian made his way back to the theatre to collect Sylvia and Agnes. The company were packing up to make their way over to dress for dinner but Sylvia was standing in the middle of the stage, her mouth pulled into a pout.
“We’re almost perfect,” she wheedled. “Can’t we run though just one more time?”
Miss Julier glanced at her wristwatch. “If you promise to lock up carefully, Sylvia, you can stay, but I expect you to be in the dining hall when the gong goes. You’ll have to be extra quick changing.”
The Phantom Portrait Page 3