Shiverton Hall (25 page)

Eventually, one of the servants, a small man with dyed-black hair, discovered her and unlocked the door while his master was out. She fled the building, sobbing and barefoot, and ran all the way back to her familiar, dirty district.

She begged for hours, but no one even looked at her, until, so hungry she was sure she would faint, she slipped into a bakery and tucked a bread roll under her skirts. The baker noticed immediately, for Mary wasn’t a thief and didn’t know the tricks of that trade. Soon she found herself locked in another room, awaiting trial for theft.

The judge didn’t like to hang young ladies for stealing bread, particularly pretty specimens like Mary, and so he banished her to a penal colony in Australia. She was sent to Portsmouth, where she awaited her departure with great trepidation.

When Mary stumbled on to the filthy ship bound for Australia a few months later, her pregnancy was already beginning to show. In spite of the squalid conditions, the baby continued to grow, and some of the other, kinder convicts shared their bread with Mary to keep her from malnourishment. The child was born on the ship, amid the muck and the rubbish, after a long and painful labour. Mary died shortly after the birth, from blood poisoning, aged sixteen, but not before she had named her squalling son Frederick Shiverton, after his father. The other convicts thought she was joking – it was far too grand a name for a poor, banished orphan – but none of them could go back on a dying woman’s wish. Frederick Shiverton’s name was duly written in the ship’s ledger, in the same ink that recorded Mary’s death.

‘None of the solicitors and detectives who searched for Lord Shiverton’s heir ever thought to look in a penal colony in Australia,’ Toynbee said.

‘Is my father still alive?’ Arthur asked, dumbfounded.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Toynbee said. ‘He died not long after you were born, in an accident in Tasmania. But if it’s any consolation, your mother is right. You’re much better without him.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘I would’ve thought you might have guessed,’ Toynbee said softly. ‘You’re the last living direct male descendant of Lord Shiverton.’

‘Who else knows?’ Arthur whispered.

‘Only Professor Long-Pitt,’ Toynbee answered.

‘Long-Pitt! No wonder she hates me!’

‘Oh, I don’t think she hates you. She worries about your presence here, perhaps.’

‘She probably thinks I’m going to try and nick the house off her!’

Toynbee laughed. ‘I’m afraid only legitimate heirs would have a claim to this house. You may be linked to Lord Shiverton by blood, but not by law.’

‘I was only joking,’ Arthur mumbled. ‘And my scholarship . . . ?’

‘Was no accident. I sent you that letter. Once I found out about the Australian Shivertons I was curious to meet you. Professor Long-Pitt advised me against it in no uncertain terms, but after what happened to you last summer I felt you deserved an opportunity to start again. I reminded her that you were still her relative, and eventually she relented.’

‘So you knew all along,’ Arthur whispered, ‘about what I did?’

‘Yes. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all this at the beginning of term. Your mother must have had an inkling as to why we offered you a place here; after all, the name Shiverton isn’t a common one. I thought that if she hadn’t told you then I shouldn’t be the one to do so, but in light of what happened here last night, I think it best that you know everything now.’

‘So what the phantom said was true.’ Arthur gave a hollow laugh. ‘I do have bad blood.’

Toynbee considered this for a moment. ‘There is violence in your ancestry, it’s true. Of course, it may account in part for what you did last summer. But that’s in the past. Not all Shivertons have turned bad. It’s important to remember that you are your own man, Arthur. Only you have control over your future.’ A flicker of guilt crossed Toynbee’s face. ‘I thought that by inviting you here we’d be helping you with that future, providing you with a second chance. Now I wonder whether that was foolish.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s no coincidence that the Amicus arrived at the same time as you did.’

‘But Tristan saw it in the library before I even got here!’ Arthur said.

‘Tristan saw it the day I found out about you,’ Toynbee replied.

Arthur thought for a moment, struggling to digest the information. ‘So it’s me,’ he said simply. ‘It’s my fault.’

Toynbee looked pained and shook his head. ‘I should have known better,’ he sighed. ‘It’s been safe here for so long now – I thought it would be all right. I think your presence here has stirred up something which should have been left alone.’

‘The Shiverton curse?’

‘The curse, yes,’ Toynbee said. ‘I wondered whether the Amicus was a manifestation of the curse as it did target you particularly, and your friends. But this house has more than one secret, Arthur.’

‘So what do I do?’ Arthur asked. ‘Leave the school?’

‘I wish it were as simple as that,’ Toynbee said, wiping some condensation from the windowpane. ‘But, you see, once you open Pandora’s box it’s difficult to close it again.’

Before Arthur could press Toynbee further, Penny and George tumbled in, chatting and helping a tired but smiling Jake.

‘Look who we found!’ George said.

‘All right, Arthur?’ Jake grinned.

‘All right, Jake?’ Arthur replied.

Penny frowned, sensing that something had passed between Toynbee and Arthur.

‘Everything OK?’ she asked. ‘Arthur, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Arthur smiled weakly and looked out of the window at the snow as it whirled its way around the stony bulk of Shiverton Hall.

With its gargoyles decked in icy, white beards and its roof sparkling with frost, it looked almost inviting, enchanting even.

Almost.

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney

First published in Great Britain in January 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP

This electronic edition published in December 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Text copyright © Emerald Fennell 2013

Coat of arms and skull illustration copyright © Theo Fennell 2013

Gate with coat of arms and small axe illustration copyright © Tom Percival 2013

Fly on page 249 photograph copyright © Fotosearch.com

The moral rights of the author and illustrators have been asserted

Epigraph: Macbeth by William Shakespeare, Act IV Scene 1

All rights reserved

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may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 4088 2965 3

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