The Mystery of Wickworth Manor (4 page)

He closed his eyes. He should get into his pyjamas, but he felt too tired to move. He lay still and silent in the sticky heat.

Gentle tapping roused him. Tapping and giggling.

They were here for their stupid seance. He stood up and marched over to the door. He opened it a crack and peered out into the corridor. Paige, Sal and Jo stood there in pyjamas and dressing gowns, slippers on their feet and grins on their faces. Sal even appeared to be holding a stuffed bear, as if this was a slumber party. Curtis frowned. ‘You can’t come in,’ he said.

‘Why? Aren’t you decent?’

‘Yes, of course I am. I just think it’s a stupid idea. If we want to know more about the portrait, then we need to do proper research. Find out who painted it and why, things like that.’

Paige leaned on the door. It eased open a few centimetres and she ducked down under his arm. He was forced to step back, otherwise she’d barge right into him. Sal and Jo slipped in too.

‘This
is
research,’ Paige said. ‘Very important research. Stop moaning. Can I turn the light on? Just while we set up.’ Without waiting for an answer, she flicked the switch. A wan bulb lit up in the centre of the ceiling.

‘Is this him?’ Sal whispered. She and Jo were by his bed, looking at the painting.

‘It’s cool, isn’t it?’ Paige said. ‘The Wickworth Boy. A tortured soul looking for revenge for his stolen love.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Curtis said.

Paige ignored him. ‘Jo, help me with this table. Sal, we need some chairs. You, Curtis, bring the painting closer. Put it on a chair. We need to channel our energy towards it.’ She was busy clearing archive boxes from the top of an old desk. Jo helped her drag it into the centre of the floor. Sal found a few chairs that seemed safe enough to sit on, even if they were a bit wobbly.

‘I think the portrait’s better on the bed,’ Curtis said. ‘Those chairs look like they might collapse.’

Paige rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. We’ll just have to channel our energy a bit further. Put your candle on the table. Jo, can you put a bit of perfume around the place, for incense? Sal, we’re ready, turn off the light.’

There was something about Paige that was like the tide coming in, or a bulldozer on a demolition site – something impossible to stop. She just didn’t come with brakes.

The three of them took their seats around the table and looked at him expectantly. He sighed. The sooner he did this, the sooner they would go away and leave him in peace. He sat.

For a while nothing seemed to be happening. He put his palms flat on the table top, like the others. In the fake candlelight the colours of their hands looked like some cheesy, world-as-one advert: black, brown, peach and pale. The flame on the screen flickered gently.

‘Everyone, breathe deeply,’ Paige said.

Curtis heard their lungs fill and the air flow as they exhaled. Slow, regular sounds. He found himself copying their breathing, even though he didn’t really want to.

‘Empty your mind,’ Paige said. ‘Feel your chi gathering inside of you. Feel your energy building. Then, send that energy out towards the Wickworth Boy.’ Her voice dropped deeper, ‘Spirits, we call on you. Is there anyone there?’

Sal giggled. Then gasped. Paige must have kicked her under the table.

‘Spirits, can you hear us? Give us a sign.’

The sounds of the house seemed amplified in the darkness: downstairs a door banged; above them something in the eaves rustled; outside a night bird called. Curtis looked at Paige. Shadows were cast upwards over her face; her eye sockets were black, as though her eyes had fallen inwards. Her lips moved, silent but rapid, as though she were speaking an incantation. Beside him, Jo’s hand grabbed his and squeezed tightly. He could see anticipation in her eyes.

‘Spirits, if you are there, speak to us!’

A sudden bang made them all jump.

Sal yelped.

Paige’s eyes flashed open.

‘What was that?’ Jo asked.

Curtis looked around; nothing in the room had been disturbed. The sound had come from outside.

‘I can feel something coming. A presence,’ Paige said.

‘I don’t like it,’ Sal said quietly. Then, a little louder, ‘I don’t like it.’

‘It was just a car backfiring, or something like that,’ Curtis said.

‘It’s getting closer,’ Paige said. ‘Closer. The spirits are nearly here. They come to share their secrets. Focus, everyone! Listen!’

There were footsteps outside; heavy in the corridor. They moved quickly, coming towards them. Curtis felt his throat constrict and his mouth go dry.

The door leapt open.

‘What on earth is going on in here?’ a voice said.

Chapter 8

‘
I said
, what is going on in here?’

Paige knew the woman in the doorway from somewhere, but it took a second to remember who she was – Mrs Burton-Jones, the owner of Wickworth Manor. She had been one of the ones going on about good behaviour when they’d first arrived. Oops.

Now she stood glaring at them like an angry bull in a flowery dressing gown.

‘Nothing’s going on,’ Paige said.

Mrs Burton-Jones’s face seemed to swell, like a bull turning into a frog. ‘Clearly not nothing,’ she yelled. ‘I do my final rounds for the night. I discover that Bluebell is empty and then I find that you are conducting some kind of voodoo. Or witchcraft. Or devil worship!’

Paige stood up. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘We weren’t doing any harm. It isn’t witchcraft. Or if it is, it’s white witchcraft. We just heard there were ghosts, that’s all.’ Her eyes flicked towards the bed. The painting was in darkness. Mrs Burton-Jones hadn’t turned on the light. And it had to stay that way.

Paige sprang up and moved towards the doorway. Mrs Burton-Jones was forced to step back into the corridor.

‘Honest,’ Paige said, following Mrs Burton-Jones, ‘we didn’t mean any harm. It was just a laugh.’

She could hear the others moving inside the room. She hoped one of them had the sense to move the painting out of sight. Curtis would, he had brains. Probably.

‘This is no laughing matter, young lady.’ Mrs Burton-Jones’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. ‘This is my home that you are desecrating. The Burton-Joneses have lived here for generations. I will not stand for such appalling behaviour in this house. You have let yourselves down, and you have let your school down. Which school are you with?’

Paige felt a sinking feeling. Great. Now Miss Brown would get involved and be sarcastic all over the place. ‘Friar’s Street,’ she said.

‘I should have known.’

‘Hey,’ Paige said, ‘what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘That’s enough. All of you, get to your rooms, right now. You’ll hear more about this in the morning. You
and
your teachers. Go!’

They had no choice.

Paige moved aside to let Sal, Jo and Curtis file out. As she closed the door she glanced into the room. They had been so close, she was certain of it. Their energy was still strong; she could almost see it, like a heat haze around the table.
We won’t give up
,
she told the spirit,
we’ll speak to you somehow.

Chapter 9

Mrs Burton-Jones herded them like sheep down the corridor, sniping at them with every step. The girls ducked into Bluebell so that Curtis was left alone with Mrs Burton-Jones.

He kept walking. Where would he go? If he told this woman that he hadn’t found his dorm yet, she would be furious. She’d march him to wherever he was meant to be staying; everyone there would wake up and think he was an idiot.

He couldn’t handle that again. He couldn’t walk down school corridors thinking that everyone was pointing at him behind his back, whispering about him. The whole point of being here was to try again. A new start, Mum had called it.

Some start.

Where was he going? Curtis looked at the doors as they passed them, solid, polished wood, each with a plaque bearing the name of a flower. And then one with a different plaque – a stick man.

Curtis stopped walking. ‘Excuse me, Ma’am, I’m sorry for causing such a fuss. I will go straight back to my room. But I need to use the bathroom first.’

Mrs Burton-Jones frowned at him and then hid a yawn with the back of her hand. ‘Fine. We’ll each have more to say about this in the morning. I expect to see you in my rooms downstairs first thing after breakfast. Any more nonsense tonight and you will be heading straight back home, have I made myself clear?’

Curtis waited in the bathroom until he was sure that Mrs Burton-Jones was gone. It was only a temporary reprieve. Tomorrow, he would have to go and face her again. He hadn’t even managed one night without getting into trouble.

What would Mum and Dad think if they found out? Dad would look disappointed. Mum would try and hide her tears. Again.

This was all Paige’s fault. She was trouble.

Back in the attic room, he climbed into bed, careful not to knock over the painting. He pulled his jacket over himself for a blanket and fell into a restless sleep.

When morning came, he dressed quickly and went downstairs. As he crept past Bluebell, he heard nothing. Good. He was going to stay as far away from Paige as possible. He had found the painting by himself and he would find out about the boy by himself too. He didn’t need anyone.

Breakfast was in the main hall. It was already filling up and groups of children chattered and laughed and greeted each other. There was no sign of Paige and the others.

Curtis filled a cereal bowl at the counter, then turned to face the room.

Suddenly, there was a cold feeling in his belly. There were no empty tables. He was going to have to sit down next to someone. He glanced around. A group of girls had their heads close together, whispering to one another. A couple of boys were talking loudly in what sounded like Polish. Another group of boys in loose sports clothes and hoodies ate cornflakes in silence. He recognised one of them from Art yesterday. Liam.

Curtis carried his tray towards the silent boys.

He left a gap of a couple of chairs, then sat down.

The sound of spoons scraping bowls and milk being slurped was loud. But no one spoke.

Then a boy with longish hair brushed to one side of his face leaned towards Curtis. ‘What school are you from, then? Friar’s?’ he asked. The boy jabbed his spoon in the air for emphasis.

‘Actually, I’m from Northdene Prep, but I won’t be attending Northdene High.’

The boy laughed. It wasn’t very kind laughter. ‘Actually, is that right, actually?’

A few of the boys smirked. Curtis felt the blood rise in his cheeks. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘And did you bring your valet with you? Or your nanny? Which one helped you get dressed?’ The boy bashed knuckles with the person sitting next to him. A current of laughter ran around the table.

Curtis stared down at his bowl.

‘Maybe his chauffeur helped?’ a fat boy with a black T-shirt said.

‘Or his butler?’ someone else added.

‘Or his slave?’

‘Good one,’ Liam said. Their laughter sounded ugly.

Curtis concentrated on the yellow flakes turning to mush on his spoon. He wasn’t hungry any more.