Shiverton Hall (17 page)

He was greeted by the sound of the grandfather clock ticking staunchly in the corner of the room. It was past three now and Peter should be in his bed. He got up, stretched, and was placing a paperweight on his work when he heard it again, soft yet clear: a knock at the door.

Peter was perplexed. Annie would be fast asleep, and they had no live-in servants, but there was the knock again, more insistent this time.

‘Come in,’ Peter said, bemused.

The doorknob turned slowly and the door opened. It was dark in the corridor, and at first Peter couldn’t see what it was that stood in his doorway.

‘Hello?’ Peter called, squinting into the darkness.

It was the figure of a boy, but it lingered just beyond the door frame, just further than the light of Peter’s study.

‘Is that you, Collins?’ Peter asked. ‘What the devil are you doing here at this hour?’

The boy shook his head.

‘No? Not Collins, eh? Well, come in then, whoever you are.’

The boy took a small step forward and Peter caught a better glimpse of him.

He wasn’t one of the Shiverton boys, Peter was sure of that. He was bone-thin, with hunched shoulders and a pale, almost translucently pale, pointed face. Peter stood up and the boy flinched.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ Peter said gently. ‘Are you lost? Did you see my light on from outside?’

The boy nodded slowly.

‘Where are your parents?’ Peter continued.

The boy didn’t reply.

‘Would you like me to telephone someone? Your mother?’

The boy cocked his head.

‘No, of course not,’ Peter said, looking at the boy’s tatty clothes, realising that if his parents couldn’t afford to clothe him properly they would hardly own a telephone.

The boy remained silent, and Peter felt a snap of annoyance. He didn’t like this boy, and didn’t want him in his house. He had an urgent desire to take him by the ear and throw him out. Peter scolded himself. Throw a lost boy out of his house into the cold night! What had come over him?

But there was something about the boy, and his sly face and his menacing silence, that made Peter feel quite threatened. Why wouldn’t he talk? Why wouldn’t he come in so Peter could see him properly?

‘You’ll have to talk to me if you want my help,’ Peter said, an edge not quite buried by the softness of his voice.

The boy just stood there waiting. Waiting for what? Peter thought.

‘Why on earth are you here if you won’t tell me what you want?’ Peter burst out.

The boy smiled, and Peter knew who he was. This was the boy who had hurt Collins. The boy he had demanded to see, who Collins had begged him not to. Peter had invited this boy here, into his home.

The boy stared at Peter, as though he were peeling back his skin and bone and staring right into his core. Peter had a sudden, grotesque premonition. There was a fire; boys were choking, throwing themselves out of windows to escape the flames. An accident on a river; a boat carrying a class of students overturned with the boys trapped beneath it. A lunatic with an axe, opening doors and entering dormitories filled with sleeping students. And all the while, in the background, this boy, this diabolical child, watched them die, with a smile playing on his lips.

Peter opened his eyes with a gasp.

‘I’ll close the school,’ he threatened.

The boy shook his head.

‘Then what? What can I do?’ Peter was shouting now, becoming hysterical.

His shouts must have woken their baby; through the ceiling came a little mewl, and then a full-blooded squall.

The boy looked up at the ceiling and smiled.

‘No!’ Peter cried, and rushed towards the boy.

But the boy was gone. And the baby had stopped crying.

Peter tore up the stairs and flung open the door to the nursery, but he was too late.

The cot was empty, except for a small teddy bear and a single baby’s sock.

‘What happened to the baby?’ Arthur asked.

George shrugged. ‘They never found him,’ he said.

‘And what about the fire? The crazy guy with an axe?’ Penny asked.

‘Those things never happened. Peter Long-Pitt seemed to think that the baby was what the boy wanted all along.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Arthur asked.

‘Grandpa spoke to Peter Long-Pitt just before he died. Peter had lived with it for fifty years and he made Grandpa promise not to tell anyone until after his death. When Grandpa published Peter’s story he wasn’t popular with the Long-Pitts, as you can imagine. Any hint of a ghost story and our headmistress throws a hissy fit.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Penny said, feeling a little sorry for Professor Long-Pitt. ‘It’s such a sad story.’

‘That’s not all of it though,’ George said grimly. ‘Peter and Annie had three more children, who were all fine. But then another child died at the hall, of whooping cough apparently, but Grandpa doesn’t believe that.’

‘Which child?’ Arthur asked.

‘Peter Long-Pitt’s grandson. Professor Long-Pitt’s brother.’

Chapter Fifteen

‘Hi, Arthur!’

Arthur looked up from his book. It was Xanthe, wearing a side ponytail tied up with an orange ribbon and brandishing two mugs of tea.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ she asked.

The common room had been empty. Arthur was excused games due to a cold he had caught the day before and was planning a quiet afternoon catching up with his homework.

‘Sure, Xanthe,’ he said politely, moving a chemistry textbook so she could sit down.

She handed him a mug of tea, which she had filled with far too much sugar. Arthur tried not to grimace as he took a sip. Xanthe leaned over his work and pointed at a chemical equation.

‘It’s KMnO4,’ she said. ‘Potassium Permanganate.’

‘Thanks!’ Arthur said, gratefully pencilling it in.

Xanthe beamed. ‘Chemistry’s my favourite subject – I’m the best in the year,’ she remarked matter-of-factly. ‘Well, joint best with Jake.’

Arthur nodded.

‘Oh no!’ Xanthe slapped her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur, I forgot he was your friend.’

‘
Was?
’ Arthur said. ‘He’s still alive, Xanthe.’

‘Of course! I didn’t mean . . .’ Xanthe trailed off, embarrassed.

They sat in an awkward silence for a moment, and Xanthe fidgeted nervously with her ribbon. Arthur resumed his homework.

‘So, what are you doing for the Christmas holidays?’ Xanthe blurted out.

‘Nothing much,’ Arthur replied distractedly, as he wrote down another equation. ‘Just going home.’

Xanthe nodded. ‘Me too.’

Another silence ensued as Xanthe searched for something else to say.

‘Have you got any plans for New Year’s Eve?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ Arthur mumbled, trying not to encourage her. ‘It’s a while away.’

‘Right. Sure.’ Xanthe peered at his exercise book again. ‘You might want to take another look at question two, Arthur.’

‘Xanthe!’ Arthur snapped. ‘I’m just trying to do my homework in peace! Stop nagging me, will you?’

Xanthe winced. ‘Sorry, Arthur,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

She ran out of the common room, her hair ribbon flying behind her.

Arthur sighed and put his book aside. He felt bad; he hadn’t meant to hurt Xanthe’s feelings. He was just about to follow her when Amber poked her head round the door.

‘What did you do to Xanthe?’ she asked, coming in and lying on the sofa opposite.

Arthur explained and the two of them sat talking for ages, Amber listening sympathetically as he talked about Jake.

‘It’s terrible what happened to Jake,’ she said sadly. ‘You’d have to be pretty unhappy to try something like that.’

‘But it wasn’t him!’ Arthur said.

‘What do you mean?’ Amber asked, sounding confused. ‘I thought –’

‘Nothing,’ Arthur replied quickly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘You can trust me, you know,’ Amber said.

Arthur nodded and took a deep breath.

When Arthur had finished, Amber was sitting right on the edge of the sofa, staring at him.

‘Have you told anyone else about this?’ Amber asked slowly.

‘No. Only George and Penny know.’

Amber nodded. Arthur sensed her demeanour towards him had changed; there was a coldness that hadn’t been there before.

‘Good,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t think you should tell anyone else. No offence, but it makes you sound kind of nuts.’

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Arthur said, a little hurt.

‘I think maybe you’ve let your imagination run away with you,’ she said.

Amber stood up awkwardly and, smiling sadly, left the common room, the second girl Arthur had driven away that day. He was no longer in the mood for homework, so he packed his stuff up and went back to house.

During prep that evening, Arthur drafted a letter to Amber, but chucked it in the bin, realising that the more he attempted to explain himself, the madder he sounded.

Later, George came in and tried to tempt Arthur with another ghost story, but Arthur wasn’t in the mood and turned him away. The ghost stories weren’t fun any more.

Arthur went over what he had told Amber and had to admit that it didn’t sound likely. His old paranoia returned; he still hadn’t seen a thing himself. He had simply trusted George and Penny, and for all he knew they were imagining things – or, worse, playing a trick on him. Maybe Jake actually had climbed the tree himself; he had seemed genuinely miserable. Arthur was filled with doubt.

Arthur dragged himself to breakfast the following morning.

‘Sleep well?’ Penny asked.

‘Fine, thanks,’ Arthur said curtly, sniffling through his cold.

Arthur, Penny and George ate in silence, occasionally opening their mouths to speak, but thinking better of it.

Two girls from Penny’s house sat down at the end of their table, deep in conversation, speaking in a low, urgent tone, with their heads together. Arthur couldn’t help but prick his ears.

‘Who found her?’ whispered Asha Khan, a small girl with a waterfall of shiny, black hair.

‘Miss Foxton,’ replied Calypso Woods, pushing her red, plastic glasses up her nose. ‘Apparently there was blood everywhere.’

Arthur looked at his friends in alarm to see if they had heard too. They had, and they all leaned towards Asha and Calypso to hear better.

‘What happened?’ Asha asked.

Calypso shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but Miss Foxton was screaming blue murder.’

Asha looked surprised. ‘I slept right through it.’

Penny couldn’t bear it any more. ‘What are you talking about?’ she blurted out.

Asha and Calypso glanced at one another, then shifted up the bench closer to Penny.

‘Xanthe fell out of her window last night,’ Asha said quietly.

Penny gasped. ‘Is she all right?’