Shiverton Hall, the Creeper (18 page)

‘Birthday bash in Hammersmith,' the prawn replied. ‘It's a costume party. Want to come along?'

‘I'm all right, thanks,' Arthur replied.

‘Suit yourself,' the prawn said haughtily.

More and more revellers joined the carriage at each stop, until it was crammed with people singing and laughing. Arthur was glad of the company, even if it did mean that he could barely move, but when they all got off at Hammersmith, Arthur had had enough of out-of-tune renditions of ‘Happy Birthday', so he peeled away from the crowd and headed for the lift.

As he walked down the empty tunnel, he heard the echo of footsteps behind him. He reached the lift and pressed the button frantically.

Maybe it was just another reveller in a costume. Maybe it was just a coincidence that someone had decided to dress as a hangman.

He knew he was wrong the moment he felt the hand on his arm.

‘There are CCTV cameras here,' Arthur said, as the burned man pulled him to a halt.

‘You don't give me much credit, do you?' the man snarled with his blunted tongue. ‘The ones here are dummies.' He pointed a hairy finger at the fake camera.

Arthur tried to stay calm. Someone was bound to come around the corner any minute now.

‘No one gets the lift at this time of night,' the man said with a hoarse laugh, reading Arthur's mind. ‘A bit too creepy.'

‘What do you want?' Arthur asked.

‘You know what I want,' the man growled. ‘And I do not enjoy repeating myself. I am offering you one more chance. Do not go back to Shiverton Hall.'

‘I'll take my chances there if you're here, thanks very much,' Arthur snapped back.

The man grunted. Arthur could see his eyes through their slits; warped, pink eyelids, the eyelashes singed off.

‘You'll pay for your arrogance, you know,' the man said.

The man took a heavy step towards Arthur and grabbed him by both arms.

‘You may think you've seen the worst of it,' he continued, ‘but a few ghosties and ghoulies are the least of your worries. That place does something extra special to a boy like you.'

‘What do you mean, “a boy like me”?' Arthur asked.

‘A boy who already has a darkness in his blood,' the man leaned in and whispered. ‘A boy called Arthur Shiverton.'

The man released Arthur from his grip and gave a sarcastic bow.

‘Wait . . .' Arthur said faintly. ‘How did you know?'

But the man was already walking away.

‘Wait!' Arthur repeated, chasing after him. But when Arthur turned the corner the man was gone.

Chapter Sixteen

Chuk checked the slip of paper again.
66 Saturn Court
, it read. But he was standing on Saturn Court and couldn’t see a number sixty-six anywhere. A girl walked out of one of the nearby galleries wearing headphones and Chuk waved for her attention.

‘Yes?’ she said, annoyed.

‘Sorry, I’m looking for the Strack Gallery, number sixty-six,’ Chuck replied.

The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Oh yeah, it’s so trendy that they make it impossible to find.’

She walked him over to a brick wall and pointed at a tiny, ornate doorbell in the middle of it. ‘There you go,’ she said.

Chuk rang the doorbell and waited. After about five minutes, a door-shaped seam appeared in the brick wall with a click. Chuk pressed it, and it slid to one side, revealing a cavernous gallery.

Chuk went inside. On the stark, white walls hung a series of enormous canvases painted black, each with a single red spatter in the middle.

‘May I help you?’

Chuk turned to find himself being scornfully appraised by a woman with a shaved head and plastic glasses decorated with ants.

‘Yes,’ Chuk said with his most charming smile. ‘Do you have anything by Inigo Cornwall?’

The woman smirked. ‘I’m afraid Inigo Cornwall’s work is reserved for our clients.’

Chuk smirked back. ‘Then I’ll tell my father, Harrison Pike, that you don’t have anything for him.’

The woman panicked. ‘Ha-harrison Pike?’ she stammered. ‘Of course. We have many things that I’m sure he’d like. Please come this way.’

He followed as her heels clattered across the glittering floor. ‘Petronella!’ she screamed at the pretty blonde girl sitting behind the desk. ‘Get Ms Strack!’

Helena Strack appeared a few moments later, and smiled icily at her shaven-headed employee, who scuttled away in terror.

Ms Strack put out a cold hand, and Chuk shook it. She had an unsettling, alien beauty; she wore only white, which matched her snow-white hair and skin, but her long nails and her lips were painted black. Chuk wondered how old she was; she might have been anything from thirty to sixty.

‘Mr Pike,’ she said, in a deep voice every bit as strange as her appearance. ‘You are here to see our Cornwalls?’

‘For my father, yes,’ Chuk replied.

‘For your father, yes,’ Ms Strack repeated with a faint smile. ‘This way.’

‘How long have you represented Mr Cornwall?’ Chuk asked as Ms Strack floated through the gallery.

‘Many years,’ she answered. ‘We’re great friends.’

‘Is he here?’ Chuk asked. ‘I’d love to meet him.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied.

She ushered him through an antechamber filled with glass bubbles.

‘This work is sold, I’m afraid,’ she said.

Finally they reached the back of the gallery, a large room painted a slick black.

The room contained several large sculptures of decaying meat carved out of pink marble. Flies made of emeralds and sapphires feasted on the flesh.

‘This is . . . interesting,’ Chuk said, looking at the sculptures dubiously.

Strack turned on her pointed heel and looked at Chuk coolly.

‘Why are you here, Mr Pike?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’ Chuk asked innocently.

‘Well, I know that as your father only collects Pre-Raphaelite art, he would be about as interested in these sculptures as you clearly are.’

Chuk tried to think of a response.

‘I also know,’ Strack continued, ‘that you must already be acquainted with Inigo Cornwall, seeing that he is a teacher at your school. So let me ask you again, why are you here?’

‘He’s just such a great artist!’ Chuk gushed with scholarly enthusiasm. ‘I wanted to find out more about him, that’s all.’

Strack studied Chuk’s earnest face for a moment.

‘Indeed,’ she said softly. ‘I am glad. I was worried for a moment that you had come here to pry. Which wouldn’t have been a very clever idea at all, no matter who your father is.’

Chuk dropped his act.

‘Is that a threat?’ he asked.

‘A threat?’ Strack said, her pale eyes emotionless. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Thanks for the tour, Ms Strack,’ he said coolly. ‘It’s been extremely . . . illuminating.’

Strack gave him a terrifying smile.

‘My pleasure.’

Chapter Seventeen

Arthur boarded the bus that would take him back to Shiverton Hall. He had spent the car ride to the station constantly checking the road behind him, terrified the burned man might be following them. ‘Everything all right, petal?’ his mum had asked. ‘Fine,’ Arthur had replied, his mouth dry.

Xanthe was already sitting with someone else, although she tried to push them off the seat once she saw Arthur coming. Arthur quickly ducked into the seat next to Chuk. They discussed Strack and Cornwall all the way back to school, but by the time they pulled up to the crumbling Shiverton gates, they were still no closer to the truth.

When Arthur arrived at his room he found George lying on his bed, reading a book and eating a biscuit.

‘Please! Make yourself at home!’ Arthur said, brushing away the crumbs that had tumbled on to his duvet.

‘Thanks, mate,’ George said, oblivious to Arthur’s sarcasm.

‘So, how was your week?’ Arthur asked.

‘Brilliant, thanks,’ George replied. ‘I saw Grandpa.’

‘Why do I feel a story coming on?’ Arthur sighed.

‘Because you know me too well.’ George grinned. ‘He told me a new story, about Lord Shiverton.’

Arthur flushed at the name. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know anything more about his bloodthirsty ancestor.

‘It isn’t even in the book,’ George sang tantalisingly.

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s only just found out about it. He bought a box of old Grimstone books for his archive and found an eyewitness account of the night that Rose Watkins went missing.’

‘Rose Watkins?’ Arthur repeated. ‘You mean the witch’s daughter?’

It had been the first story George had told Arthur. The story of the Shiverton Curse.

After building the hall, the ageing Lord Shiverton had become increasingly insane and depraved, and had abducted and murdered four young women from Grimstone. He did not realise that his final victim was the daughter of Ma Watkins, a powerful witch, who wreaked a fatal revenge on Lord Shiverton and put a curse on his ancestors.

‘Poor Rose,’ George said, ‘Lord Shiverton was not the kind of man you’d want to bump into in the middle of the night.’

Grimstone, 1799

‘
I’ll be all right.’

It was late already, and Rose Watkins didn’t have time to wait for the landlady’s son to finish up moving the ale barrels and chaperone her home.

‘Ma will be waiting for me. I only have to walk over a field, Mrs Cratch. I do it every night, don’t I?’

Rose could see that Mrs Cratch was concerned; she was twisting her pink hands around an old dishcloth, looking back into the emptying pub to see what progress her son was making.

‘Please, Rosie,’ Mrs Cratch begged. ‘He’ll only be a minute with them barrels, and I can’t let a barmaid o’ mine walk around by herself at night – not with all this nasty business going on. Three girls have gone missing, Rose. Don’t you be the fourth.’

Rose rolled up the cotton sleeve of her dress and flexed a muscle. ‘Look at that, Mrs Cratch. Ain’t going to come to no harm with these arms.’ She picked up her skirts and started towards the field. ‘G’night. Thanks for the pie!’

Mrs Cratch shook her head. ‘Rosie Watkins! You shouldn’t be cuttin’ through Bradby’s cornfield anyhow,’ she called after Rose. ‘You’ll spoil the corn an’ we’ll all be in trouble.’

But Rose was already skipping through the field and into the night, her golden hair tied prettily with a pink ribbon shimmering behind her.

The light from the pub did not stretch far, and soon Rose was walking in the dark, with only the sound of the whispering corn and a thin crust of moon to keep her company. But Rose was as brave as any boy in the village, braver sometimes, and could find her way home with her eyes closed.

Bradby’s cornfield reached over a small hill, with the Grimstone Tavern on one side and Rose’s mother’s cottage on the other. At the crest of the hill the view stretched for miles on every side: the lights of Grimstone, the thatch of Ma Watkins’s little house, and further too . . . in the distance, dark and alone, the malevolent shadow of Shiverton Hall. Rose shuddered to look at it. She’d heard the village rumours: that it was Lord Shiverton himself who had snatched those girls.

Rose made her way up the hill, her breath catching slightly. It had been a hard day of rowdy customers and she longed for her bed.

She stopped.

Across the field, a little way away, stood a shadow.

‘Who goes there?’ Rose called out, her voice shaking.

The figure did not respond. Rose remained still, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness so that she might see better. It was tall, a man – she would stake her life on it – though it had the long hair of a woman, straggled and wispy and blowing in the wind. Straight as a whip, it stood motionless amid the corn, with its arms flung out to the sides, as though crucified.

Rosie gasped, and then burst out laughing.

The scarecrow.

Of course, she thought, resuming her walk and giggling to herself. It was Farmer Bradby’s scarecrow. It had frightened the wits out of her when she was a child, but in recent years she had begun to see its annual appearance as a pleasant sign that summer was on its way. She looked back at its ragged silhouette and rolled her eyes at her own girlishness. She was glad Mrs Cratch’s son hadn’t accompanied her tonight: he would have teased her mercilessly had he caught her trembling over an old bag of straw.

Rose stopped at the peak of the hill, as she always did on a clear night, to admire the view. The black hulk of Shiverton Hall seemed even more menacing than usual, its jagged stones exaggerated in the moonlight. Rosie pulled her shawl closer to her.

She was about to continue on when something made her pause. A rustling, faint in the wind, and the sound of footsteps in the corn behind her.

Rosie turned sharply. The scarecrow was gone.