The Hotel Under the Sand (10 page)

“Oh, I know what it is!” said Emma. “I read a book about a phony haunted house once, and some robbers hiding there put in a machine that made a noise, only it was so low people felt it instead of hearing it. It made people imagine things, and scared everyone off.” She tried to remember the word.
“Subsonic!
That’s what it was called. I’ll bet this works the same way. Can you turn it off?”

“There’s a switch here,” said Winston. “Yes! There. Just like an alarm clock! Now, let’s have a look at that figurehead.” He leaned over to peer at it. “She’s holding something up against her heart,” he announced. Mrs. Beet gasped, clutching Shorty.

“Heavens, man, have a care! You don’t want to fall.”

But it was not Winston who fell.

A shadow flashed past the high windows, as though a very large bird had decided to land outside. Shorty began to bark. They heard a shrill scream, and then a
crash
.

"S
OMETHING JUST HIT
the verandah,” said Winston. He left the Ballroom at a run, with Emma close behind him. Mrs. Beet and Captain Doubloon followed them. They were not very fast, so Emma and Winston rushed down the Grand Staircase far ahead of them.

Winston got to the doors and pulled them open, preparing to hurry through. Then he froze.

“I—I can’t go out again,” he said, in a strange voice. Emma wondered what he meant, but had no time to ask. She ran out past him. She saw a little boy, struggling in the sand at the foot of the verandah steps.

“Help me out of this, you!” cried the boy, in an angry voice.

“You don’t have to be rude,” said Emma, but she went down the stairs at once.

The boy was tangled in a contraption of snapped metal struts and leather straps that looked as though it had been made from a pair of men’s belts and an old umbrella. It had apparently fastened the boy to a pair of metal tanks, just like the ones balloon-sellers use to blow up balloons. There were also a lot of tubes and cords, and a billowy confusion of green silk.

Emma wrenched and tore at it until the boy was able to wriggle free. He stood up and almost fell again, he was so unsteady on his legs. Emma had to catch his arm to help him stand.

“Are you all right?” she asked. He pushed up the swim goggles he was wearing and glared at her.

“Of course I’m all right,” he said, in a very grown-up voice considering he looked as though he were a couple of years younger than Emma, who was nine. He was a head shorter than she was, too. “What are you doing in my hotel?”

Emma scowled at him. “It’s
my
hotel,” she said. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Masterman Marquis de Lafayette Wenlocke,” he said. “The Eighth.”

Winston, still standing in the doorway, gasped. “Who?” he said.

The little boy brushed sand off his jacket. “I am the last of the Wenlockes. You may address me as Master.” He folded his arms. “All you people are trespassing on my property, so you can just leave. Except for you,” he added, looking at Winston. “You look like a servant. You can stay.”

Mrs. Beet, who had come out on the verandah, said, “He’s a Wenlocke, sure enough. Look at him!”

On first glance, Masterman wasn’t anything like the man in Mr. Wenlocke’s portrait. He was small and pale, with big green eyes that reminded Emma of the eyes of the mermaid. His hair was fair and curled. He had a rather pointed chin, though, and as he smiled, Emma thought he did bear a resemblance to Mr. Wenlocke. Above the left-hand buttons of his uniform tunic was a patch with the words PAVOR NOCTIS MILITARY ACADEMY.

“Where did you come from?” Emma asked him, not very nicely, actually.

“I escaped,” said the little boy. “I always knew I would have to, one day, because it was only a matter of time before Uncle Roderick and the lawyers had me murdered. So I built a helium-powered flying machine and flew away to the Dunes.”

“Oh, you poor little mite!” said Mrs. Beet, though Shorty in her arms was snarling at the boy. “Are you hurt?”

“Hurt? Me? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Masterman, putting his nose in the air. He stepped forward, as though he were going to stride up the steps, and promptly fainted.

Emma knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help grinning a little as she caught him. Mrs. Beet cried out in consternation, and made Captain Doubloon come down the steps and pick him up. A bit grudgingly, Captain Doubloon tossed the boy over his shoulder like a sack of laundry and carried him into the Lobby.

They laid him down on one of the sofas while Winston ran to fetch a glass of water for him.

“He’s cold as ice,” said Mrs. Beet, throwing her shawl over him, “and he looks as though he hasn’t eaten in days. And what was all that about people wanting to murder him? The poor baby!”

Emma felt a slight pang of conscience at having taken an instant dislike to him. So she brought a pillow to prop up Masterman’s head while Winston tilted the glass and got him to drink some water. Masterman coughed and sat bolt upright, staring around. Then he lay back, smiling.

“My
hotel,” he said. “It’s just as I thought it would be.”

“It’s Emma’s hotel, you little lubber,” said Captain Doubloon. “On account of she salvaged it. How’d you even know it’d been found again, eh?”

“I didn’t,” said Masterman. “I decided I’d come dig it out myself. I built a flying machine and I knew I could build a machine to excavate our hotel, if I could only get to the Dunes. I’m a Wenlocke! I’m a genius at inventing things. All of us Wenlockes are brilliant inventors, except—” and his lip trembled as though he were going to cry—“except that there’s only me left. I’m an orphan.”

“Out of that whole big family?” said Mrs. Beet, horrified.

“Things were bad for us, after the hotel sank,” said Masterman.

“Then who’s Uncle Roderick?” said Emma.

“He’s not really my uncle,” said Masterman with a sneer. “He’s just my guardian. He’s been plotting to do away with me ever since I was four.”

“Is he trying to steal your fortune?” asked Winston.

“Yes, but mostly he just hates me,” said Masterman. “So he sent me off to a horrible school, where everyone was mean to me for no reason. He was hoping I would catch my death of cold when the other boys stole my blankets, or starve when the other boys locked me out of the mess hall. And if that didn’t work, he was hoping I’d be sent off to fight in a war and get killed.”

“A
Wenlocke
fighting in a war!” said Mrs. Beet. “Why, Mr. Wenlocke told me no Wenlocke was ever a soldier; they just sold guns to both sides!”

“But I was smarter than he was,” said Masterman smugly. He lay back. “And now I’d like some hot soup and crisp toast, please.”

“I’ve got a nice Tomato Bisque on the range, Master Masterman,” said Mrs. Beet, and she hurried down to the Kitchens.

“Can I do anything else for you, sir?” said Winston, wringing his hands. Emma and Captain Doubloon looked at each other.

“You can tell me what this pirate and this girl are doing in my hotel,” said Masterman.

“Pirate! What pirate?” said Captain Doubloon. “I’ll have you know I’m an honest sailor, with a legally binding claim on the treasure what’s hid in this here hotel, as was given to
my
ancestor by
your
ancestor. And that young lady is a castaway with a legally binding salvage claim, on account of it was
her
got the hotel out from under the sand in the first place! We knows our rights, see?”

Masterman listened to all this and he began to stroke his chin, just as though he were practicing stroking a beard to a point.

“I see,” he said, when Captain Doubloon had finished. “Well! Here I am, a poor orphan, all alone in the world—and now you tell me I can’t even live in my great-grandfather’s hotel, because you got here first.”

“Oh, no, sir!” said Winston. “I’m sure that’s not what he meant!”

“Aw…” Captain Doubloon looked embarrassed. “No, I s’pose not.”

“We just mean you have to
share,”
said Emma firmly. “Or we can walk out of here and you can try to run a hotel all by yourself. And what are you going to do when the Storm of the Equinox comes again?”

Masterman turned pale at that, and looked so small and frightened she felt sorry for him. “But I’m not very good at sharing,” he said, and started to cry.

“Don’t worry,” said Emma, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll teach you.”

“Look here,” said Captain Doubloon in a whisper. “Why don’t we get on with hunting for me treasure?”

Unfortunately, sailors don’t know how to whisper very well, so everyone heard him. “Oh, oh, you’re taking away my treasure too—” sobbed Masterman. “And me a poor little mite at the mercy of wicked uncles and lawyers!”

“Now, Master Masterman, just you cheer up,” said Winston. “You’ll feel much better about everything once you’ve had a hot meal. Look, here’s Mrs. Beet with your soup and toast, and the toast looks ever so crispy!”

“I’m going for a bit of a walk,” muttered Captain Doubloon, as Mrs. Beet came into the Lobby bearing a laden tray. He stumped away down the corridor, and Emma followed him.

“Good thing the brat didn’t land in the sea, square in a school of sharks,” he said.

“Awk! Walk the plank!” said the parrot. “Splash! Glub glub glub!”

“He would probably talk them into biting each other,” said Emma.

“That’s true,” said Captain Doubloon, and gave a surly laugh. “Well, maybe a smooth talker will come in handy, if we’re going to run a fine hotel. But don’t you let him talk
you
out of your share, dearie.”

After Captain Doubloon had walked off his temper, they went back to the Lobby. Masterman was very meek and quiet the rest of the afternoon, and said very nice things about Mrs. Beet’s cooking when she served them all dinner.

Then they put him to bed in the Master Suite, and though the bedroom there was just as cold and frightening-looking as the office had been, he snuggled down happily in the enormous bed. He curled up like a kitten and went to sleep at once.

Emma went to bed in what she had now decided was definitely
her
room. Captain Doubloon and Mrs. Beet stayed up very late, talking together in the Bar. And faithful Winston went marching back and forth all night between the two children’s rooms, to be certain they were safe.

W
HEN
E
MMA GOT
up the next morning, she looked out all the windows in the turret room to see if there were any new pirate ships anchored offshore, or any other strange aircraft about to crash into the hotel. But she couldn’t see any, and Mifficent the doll (for Emma had given her a name) smiled but said nothing.

Masterman came down to breakfast early and surprised everyone. He had seemed like the sort of person who would sleep late. He had not put the military academy uniform back on. Instead he had gone into Mr. Wenlocke’s wardrobe, and put on one of his black suits. He had to roll up the cuffs of the long trousers, and the sleeves of the swallowtail coat and shirt, and the scarlet silk waistcoat came down almost to his knees. He looked like a stage magician who had shrunk himself, but he was very proud.