The Puzzle Ring (11 page)

By the time Hannah and her mother got home, it was dusk and rain had begun to fall. The looming mountains were wreathed in mist, and a cold wind blew curtains of rain across the loch.

‘I am definitely hiring us a car,' Roz said grimly, holding the hood of her raincoat close about her face.

Donovan's bicycle was still thrown down on the grass outside Wintersloe Castle. Music poured in a golden blast from the ground-floor window of the smaller tower. It was just the sort of music Hannah liked, with a sweet voice and a saxophone and the blue note of soul.

Then she heard a trumpet join in, not quite so smooth but played with unmistakable passion and verve. Through the window Hannah glimpsed Donovan playing, his head bent back, his hair tossed away from his face. Hannah turned away, afraid he would see her watching him and know she had seen the look on his face. It was both joy and misery, it was both
longing and loss. She felt she had seen a glimpse of something he would rather have kept hidden and she understood this, having the same hunger for privacy herself.

‘Run on upstairs and get changed, ' Roz said as they came dripping into the front hall. ‘Here, give me your raincoat; I'll hang it up for you.'

Instead, Hannah followed the sound of horns to the far end of the house. Soul music was her great passion. She knocked on the door, waited a moment, then went in. Donovan put down his horn and turned towards her, scowling.

‘I love this song,' Hannah said. ‘Nina Simone.'

‘Yeah.' He sounded surprised.

She showed him her T-shirt. ‘I love Nina. Play it again and I'll sing with you.'

So Donovan started the CD again, and Hannah began to sing along with the words. Donovan nodded his head once or twice, then lifted his horn and began to play. It was an old-fashioned instrument, with a flared bell and only three valves, and a beautiful, deep tone.

When they had finished there was a pause. ‘I like your horn,' Hannah said shyly. ‘I've never seen one like it before. Is it some kind of trumpet?'

‘It's a flugelhorn,' Donovan said. ‘It's very old. It belongs here, but Lady Wintersloe lets me play it. It's got a darker, lower tone that a trumpet. I like that.'

‘Me too,' Hannah said. ‘You're pretty good.'

‘You're good too. You should join our band. You're a much better singer than Scarlett.'

Hannah's heart sank. ‘Scarlett's in your band?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What sort of music do you play?'

‘Whatever we like, really. Scarlett's into pop, while I like jazz and blues, anything that's got horns. Max plays the keyboard and the recorder, though not that well.'

‘I play the guitar. Mostly I like to sing, though.'

‘What else can you sing?' he asked.

Jubilant, she said, ‘Anything, really. Play me what you've got.'

They mucked about, playing and singing snatches of songs, talking about who they liked and why. In one corner of the room was a grand piano (out of tune, as Hannah discovered when she tried it); in another an old electric organ that must have been state of the art thirty years earlier. There were also bongo drums, tambourines, flutes, and tin whistles in cases so old their velvet had almost rubbed bare, and a beautiful big double-bass which Hannah guessed must be Mary-Lou. She opened the case to have a look at it, and plucked a few strings, wondering about her father.

It was cold in the music room, and Hannah was still damp from the rain. She shivered and glanced at the streaming window. It was dark outside. Donovan's eyes followed hers. At once he leapt up and started throwing all his things together.

‘I've got to go! Dad said he'd give me the belting of my life if I was home late again.'

‘But it's pouring!' Hannah followed him out into the hall.

‘So? A little rain won't melt me. I'll see you later. We practise on Saturday afternoons. So we'll see you tomorrow, if not before!'

He rushed out the door into the rain and Hannah heard the sound of his motor putt-putt-putting into life. She was left alone, standing in the cold, dark hall. Hannah looked
around her with interest. Behind her was a narrow, twisty staircase leading up into darkness. Otherwise everything was bare. There were lighter patches on the walls as if showing where furniture and paintings had once been. It was in stark contrast to the richly furnished and decorated front hall.

On an impulse, Hannah pulled out the hag-stone and put it to her left eye. At once the hall looked quite different. It was filled with warm light, and there were bright rugs on the floor and paintings on the wall, and a sideboard with gilded candlesticks and Chinese urns. When Hannah dropped her hand, the hallway was once again bare, cold and dark. Experimenting, Hannah lifted the hag-stone to her ear. She heard music, laughter, chatter, yet when she moved the hag-stone away all was quiet.

Next Hannah put the stone ring on her finger. At first, everything seemed the same. Then she noticed something dark and squat on the steps, watching her with huge gleaming eyes.

It was the toad.

Hannah's heart began to beat faster. The hairs on her arms stood up. For a moment she hesitated, then slowly she moved forward. At once the toad began to hop up the stairs. Hannah followed it. The narrow steps wound tightly upon themselves in a spiral. Hannah could both see and hear the toad, hopping a few steps ahead of her. It gave a moist plopping sound each time it landed.

Something hissed in the darkness behind her. Hannah jumped violently and spun round. A grey shadow streaked past, tripping her up so she fell on her hands and knees. It was Jinx the cat, leaping upon the toad. Hannah scrambled forward, but was too late to stop the cat closing her sharp
teeth upon the toad's neck. To her surprise, Jinx yowled and took off like a flash, leaving streamers of saliva behind her. The toad sat stolidly, eyes gleaming.

Hannah looked at it doubtfully. The toad turned and began to once again hoppity-hop-hop up the steps. Hannah followed.

At the top of the stairs was a low oaken door. Hanging above its lintel was a rough star made of three twigs strapped together. Its door handle was made of iron, forged into a spiral. There was a keyhole below it, thick with cobwebs. With a feeling of inevitability, Hannah put her hand into her right pocket and brought out the old key. It slid into the lock and, with a screeching sound, unlocked the door. Hannah stepped into a small round room. Groping automatically, her hand found the light switch. She flicked it on. A dim light filled the room.

The tower room was a miniature version of her bedroom, with four long, narrow windows, one with a telescope set up at it. Between the windows were bookcases overflowing with dusty books. More books were spread across a wooden table.

Hannah sat down at the table. Before her lay a notebook with a battered red leather cover. She drew it towards her and opened it. Drawn on the first page was the symbol that looked like a heart with three legs. Inside was page after page written in the same quick, vigorous handwriting. At the top of each entry was the date. They were the only thing that made sense in the book. Everything else sounded like the ramblings of a madman. The first entry read:
Pestis must be infractus, but the baffled moon is lost in the mists of time
.

The last entry read:

Back through the winter gate I must go
to the time of two hornet queens
flying around the one great chair.
Cut free sweetbrier from thorny tower
find the waxing gibbous moon,
its bewildered quarter I left safe
with the rose of the world, my double rose
.

It was dated the day after Hannah's birth. The day Hannah's father had disappeared.

Outside, the rain swished and swashed through the trees, so it sounded as if the tower was afloat on a stormy sea. Hannah shivered with cold. Or perhaps she shivered with sorrow and fear and a creeping sense of horror. For Hannah had no doubt that this room had been her father's, and this notebook filled with mad scribbling his too.

She covered her face with her hands.
Audacia
, she told herself. It was the motto that had been on Lady Wintersloe's letter—her family's motto. It meant ‘courage'.

Hannah prided herself on her boldness, but now she felt it failing her in this old, dusty room with her father's last words so strange and mad on the page before her. She felt as if a gulf of black water had opened below her and her foot could no longer touch the sand.

It was all too strange. The curse, the toad, the hag-stone, the hidden key, the locked tower room with its crazy scribblings, the feeling that she had opened a door that could never be shut again. Hannah pushed her father's diary away from her violently and ran out of the room, locking the door behind her.

When Hannah entered the warm, firelit drawing room Lady Wintersloe was bent over Jinx, who was lying on her lap, shivering and meowing piteously. Long strings of saliva dripped from the cat's mouth.

‘Something's happened to Jinx,' Roz said. ‘We think she's been poisoned.'

‘It's just like Eglantyne and her dog all over again.' Lady Wintersloe's voice quivered. ‘There's something evil at work here!'

‘Jinx bit a toad,' Hannah said.

‘Toads are poisonous, aren't they?' Roz cried. ‘We'd better take her to the vet.'

‘I called Genie to stop Donovan on his way out,' Linnet said. ‘He'll be here in just a minute.'

‘Donovan? What could he do?' Roz was surprised.

‘He's very good with animals,' Lady Wintersloe said.

Just then the door opened and two boys raced in. Donovan
was in the lead. Behind him charged Max. He was dressed in camouflage pants, and his gold-rimmed glasses were fogged up from the rain. The enormous boots he wore on his feet made his legs look really skinny.

‘Where's the poor old thing? Let me have a look at her.' Donovan lifted the cat gently from Lady Wintersloe's lap and sat down, laying Jinx on her back so he could feel all over her distended belly with gentle fingers. The cat hissed and struck out with her claws, but Donovan was waiting and caught her attacking paw with his hand.

‘Hannah says she tried to bite a toad.' Lady Wintersloe twisted her thin hands together in anxiety.

Donovan shot Hannah a quick look. ‘How long ago?'

Hannah shrugged. ‘Not so long ago. Just after you left.'

Donovan looked worried. ‘We need to get Jinx to the vet as soon as we can.'

‘I'll take you if you like,' Genie said, standing just inside the door.

‘I'll just rinse out the poison first. Do you have any water?' Donovan said.

Lady Wintersloe indicated the jug of water by her elbow. Hannah passed it to Donovan, who thanked her with a quick crooked smile before bending over the distressed cat again. He rinsed out her mouth, wrapped her in a towel and gently lifted her to his shoulder as he hurried towards the door.

‘Don't you worry, Lady Wintersloe,' he said. ‘She's a tough old puss, she'll be fine.'

‘As a matter of fact, toad poison is pretty toxic,' Max said. ‘Did you know—'

‘Max! Not now,' his mother cried. ‘Come on!'

Linnet followed them all out, adroitly catching a vase Max would have knocked over with the end of his long striped, hand-knitted scarf.

The room seemed much quieter once they were all gone. Hannah could hear the clock tick-tock-ticking.

‘Where were you all that time?' Roz asked in exasperation. ‘Look at you! You're still in your damp clothes. Where did you get to?'

‘I was in the music room,' Hannah said. ‘With Donovan. He's asked me to be in their band.'

Roz was torn between pleasure that Hannah was making friends, and disapproval over whom she was making friends with.

Lady Wintersloe, however, was delighted. ‘Oh, that's wonderful! I'm so pleased you're making friends. You're all so close in age.'

‘You don't make friends with people just because you're the same age,' Hannah said, thinking of old Mr Wheeler, her music teacher back in Australia who'd been just about the only person she'd liked at all. ‘I hate most girls my age.'

‘Don't say “hate”, Hannah,' Roz said.

‘I'm sure you won't hate any of the midwinter bairns. I call them that because they were all born in midwinter, just like you, Hannah dear. Strange, isn't it? Is it any wonder I don't know which is the one?' Lady Wintersloe leant her head back against her chair and closed her eyes.

‘The one what?' Hannah asked.

Her great-grandmother opened her eyes. ‘The one of true blood.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘It's part of the curse,' Lady Wintersloe said wearily. Roz
made a small movement, as if to try to stop her speaking, but the old woman went on, in a faint but steady voice, ‘“By fever, fire, storm and sword, your blood shall suffer this bane. No joy or peace for Wintersloe's lord, till the puzzle ring is whole again. The thorn tree shall not bud, the green throne shall not sing, until the child of true blood, is crowned the rightful king.”'