‘Girls!’ cried Lady Hastings, spreading her arms dramatically. She had changed into her bright-green dress, and she looked like a fashion-plate come to life. ‘Welcome to our little gathering in honour of dear Daisy’s birthday. Thirteen years old today!’
‘I’m fourteen,’ said Daisy.
‘Oh, are you?’ asked her mother vaguely. ‘Really? Well, I suppose it does happen.’
‘It tends to,’ said Lord Hastings. ‘Especially when you aren’t looking.’
Lady Hastings shot him a glare. ‘As I was saying,’ she went on, ‘I thought it would be the most lovely fun to have a proper children’s tea – for us to serve ourselves, just the way we used to when we were young.’
‘I don’t suppose you remember being young, Daisy,’ said Uncle Felix, winking at her, ‘at your great age. What a long time ago your youth was!’
‘Oh, good heavens, do be quiet, Felix!’ complained Lady Hastings. ‘I’m trying to explain. We’re all serving ourselves, and it will be such fun, and I want you all to absolutely stuff yourselves silly. This is a proper children’s tea!’
I was not sure what a proper children’s tea was, or how it was different from tea in our House Dining Room after school. Daisy, Kitty, Beanie and I all looked at each other, mystified, and Daisy rolled her eyes. Her cheeks were very pink again, and her eyes were shining – but I didn’t think it was with excitement.
However, the grown-ups and Bertie and Stephen seemed far more pleased. They all crowded round the long table, jostling for space next to the teapot. Aunt Saskia, who was draped in even more silky scarves than usual, pounced on a plate of cream cakes as though she hadn’t eaten for at least a decade, while Lord Hastings (in a rather nicer tweed jacket that didn’t go with his mud-stained trousers) snatched up an enormous slice of ham. In fact, the only grown-up who held back was Mr Curtis. He slouched fashionably, hands in his well-cut suit pockets, as though he had not a care in the world – but I got the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to go anywhere near Uncle Felix or Miss Alston. Something, I sensed, was going on; something to do with what we had overheard in the maze. Would Mr Curtis leave before we had the chance to find out what it was?
I suddenly remembered the scene between Mr Curtis and Lady Hastings that Stephen and I had witnessed. I shifted uncomfortably. What if Mr Curtis didn’t leave on his own – or what if he did, and told Lord Hastings all about him and Lady Hastings, just as he’d threatened? What would Daisy do then? I hadn’t told her about it yet – I couldn’t bear to.
‘Let me know when the bun-fight has died down a bit,’ Mr Curtis drawled, and threw himself into one of the squashy chairs that Lady Hastings had made Chapman drag in from the library and set out in a semicircle near the door. Then he pulled the gold watch out of his pocket and rolled it around in his hands absentmindedly. For a moment Aunt Saskia paused with a jam tart halfway to her mouth. As she gazed at the watch, her eyes were round with desire; then she turned back to the tea table.
There was still an absolute scrum around the teapot; I was aching to join in – it seemed a long time ago that we had been given those cold cuts. Good china clattered and clinked (I saw Chapman wince), and everyone seemed to be talking and snatching cups up at once.
‘Chapman, stand well back! I shall be Mother and pour!’ cried Lady Hastings gaily. ‘Let me!’
But everyone seemed to be ignoring her – apart from Chapman, who moved as far away from the tea table as possible.
‘Oh, at least fetch a cup of tea for Mr Curtis!’ she said to no one in particular. ‘Here – oh—’
‘I have one!’ Lord Hastings turned to Mr Curtis with a cup in his hand. It was full to the brim and wobbling – little drips of tea went snaking down its white and gold side – and he thrust it at Mr Curtis so quickly I thought it really would spill.
Mr Curtis snatched it rudely, without looking up or thanking Lord Hastings, and swallowed it down in one enormous gulp. Then his face twisted. ‘This tea is disgusting,’ he snapped. ‘Ugh! Foul!’
‘What a pity,’ said Lord Hastings. His lips were pursed, like Daisy’s when she is trying not to laugh, and he quickly turned away from Mr Curtis and went back to the tea table.
By this point, although I knew I ought to show support for Daisy, I was almost overpowered by the desire for a jam tart. I could see Aunt Saskia bearing down on the plate again, her eyes glinting and her hands outstretched eagerly.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Daisy, although I had not said anything. ‘Tea time. Come on, everyone, dig in!’
I heaved the most enormous sigh of relief. All three of us had been waiting for her word. Daisy grinned at me, and then she darted forward, swiped my beautiful tart from under Aunt Saskia’s nose and presented it to me.
‘I saw you eyeing it,’ she said. ‘Oh, look at this cake! Chapman, you are a brick.’ Daisy was making the best of it, I thought, and I was proud of her.
‘We know that chocolate’s your favourite,’ said Chapman, patting her on the shoulder with his wrinkly old hand. ‘Mrs D made it specially for you. Happy birthday, Miss Daisy.’
We ate and ate and ate, and I got crumbs all down my good dress (so did everyone, even Lady Hastings, but nobody seemed to mind), and I was just thinking that it might be quite an enjoyable party, after all, when the chatter was abruptly stopped.
6
Mr Curtis coughed. He looked surprised at himself. Then he coughed again, sharply, as though he were trying to clear something stuck in his throat. That was what we all thought had happened.
‘Shall Chapman – I mean, shall I get you a glass of water, Denis?’ asked Lady Hastings, putting down her cup of tea, but Mr Curtis shook his head and put his hand up to his still-open mouth.
‘My tongue,’ he said thickly. ‘I feel—’ and he actually stuck his finger between his lips and prodded it.
I was shocked. You simply do not behave like that at a tea party, not even a children’s one (unless you are a baby, which Mr Curtis was quite obviously not).
‘Augh,’ said Mr Curtis. ‘Augh!’ And all of a sudden he doubled up in his chair, folding himself over like a paper doll. Then he began coughing again, louder now, until the coughs became retching noises. It was horrid to listen to – it made my own throat tickle. Nasty as Mr Curtis was, it was awful hearing him suffer. Kitty had her hands over her mouth; Beanie had hers over her eyes.
When Mr Curtis sat up again for a moment, his face had gone white and waxy, and he was making the most dreadful groaning noise, mixed in with the retches.
‘What is it?’ asked Beanie. ‘What? What’s wrong?’
With a cry Lady Hastings rushed towards Mr Curtis and put her arm around him. He put his hand over his mouth and heaved.
‘Quick!’ Lady Hastings cried to Chapman. ‘Fetch Mrs Doherty and Hetty! Tell them that Denis has been taken ill and is up in his room.’ Then she pulled Mr Curtis, still retching, to his feet and guided him out through the door. Chapman, looking almost as waxy-white as Mr Curtis, tottered after her.
I stared around at everyone else. Aunt Saskia had her mouth open, and her hands clutched the sides of her face, which looked like a horrid mask. Uncle Felix was standing with his arms folded, his expression very stern. Miss Alston’s face was quite blank, but she was clinging to her handbag as tightly as anything. Bertie looked as though he did not know who to be angry at, and Stephen looked as if he might be sick. And then I glanced at Lord Hastings. He was trying to look concerned, as the host of a guest who has just been taken ill ought to, but underneath I could see a nasty sort of pleased expression that did not suit him at all.
‘What’s wrong with Mr Curtis?’ Beanie kept whispering fearfully. ‘Oh, what’s wrong with him?’
‘Shut it, Beans!’ hissed Kitty rudely.
What was wrong with Mr Curtis? I wondered. Was he ill? If he was, it was very sudden. We had seen him out jogging that morning, after all. Had he eaten something bad? All I had seen him take was that cup of tea.
I felt a pin
ch on my hip, and turned to see Daisy widening her eyes at me. It was as though she had held up a sign. This may be important! said Daisy’s eyes. She was right. Strange things kept happening around Mr Curtis, as though he were a magnet for them.
‘Come on,’ said Uncle Felix to everyone, as we heard voices and feet on the stairs. ‘Out, all of you.’ He flapped his hands at us, shooing us out of the dining room (‘I don’t see why!’ complained Aunt Saskia) and then stood in the doorway, looking forbidding. I peeped round his arm and saw the tea things all strewn about and Mr Curtis’s watch and cup still balanced on the arm of the chair he had been sitting in – and then my view was cut off. Toast Dog tried to wriggle his way in between Uncle Felix’s legs, and Uncle Felix said, ‘Oh no you don’t,’ and shut the door on Toast Dog’s nose. ‘Mrs D!’ he called. ‘I need the key to the dining room!’
Mrs Doherty came flustering out of the kitchens, carrying a bowl of water. ‘Of course,’ she gasped. ‘It’s hanging up in the kitchens. But I must just take this upstairs to Mr Curtis first.’
‘Daisy, we can’t wait. Go and get the key,’ said Uncle Felix, not moving. ‘Don’t argue with me.’
Daisy went, looking vague and don’t-care – though I could tell she was fizzing with excitement underneath. When she came back, Uncle Felix locked the dining-room door, put the key in his pocket and went bounding up the stairs to Mr Curtis’s room, his long legs taking three treads at a time. I was worried: Uncle Felix was behaving as though something was seriously amiss.
‘What is wrong with Mr Curtis?’ repeated Beanie. ‘Did he eat something bad?’
‘My aunt mistook bath salts for sugar once,’ said Kitty. ‘She was ill everywhere. The house smelled horrible for days.’
‘Mr Curtis hasn’t swallowed bath salts,’ said Daisy scornfully. ‘Don’t be silly. I expect he ate something that disagreed with him at lunch – some of that meat was rather old.’
Did she believe that? I wondered. One look at her told me that she didn’t.
‘Oh no!’ wailed Beanie. ‘Will we all be ill?’
‘Most likely,’ said Daisy, who was clearly in a ghoulish mood. ‘In fact, I think I feel—’
Beanie shrieked, and clutched her stomach. ‘Help!’ she cried, and made a dash for the bathroom. Kitty, rolling her eyes at Daisy, went chasing after her.
‘Daisy!’ I said. ‘That’s not really true, is it? I don’t feel ill – at least, I don’t think I do.’
‘I know,’ said Daisy. ‘Neither do I. In fact, I may not have been entirely truthful with Kitty and Beanie.’
When are you ever? I wanted to say – but I didn’t. ‘So?’ I asked.
‘So? Hazel, haven’t we been saying all day that something odd is going on? Mr Curtis is obviously here for nefarious purposes, we have established that – this could just be a trick to stop Daddy forcing him out of the house this evening. If he’s ill, he can stay on at Fallingford.’
‘But I don’t think he was pretending!’ I objected.
‘Neither do I, really. But if he isn’t pretending – well, that is even more interesting. There are all sorts of possibilities, and it is up to us as members of the Detective Society to investigate them further, before we draw any conclusions. What do we know so far? Quick, while we’re alone.’
‘Mr Curtis has been behaving oddly,’ I said. ‘And now he’s been taken ill – it looked like he was going to be sick.’
‘But none of the rest of us are showing symptoms of sickness, although we all ate the same things at lunch,’ Daisy pointed out. ‘And we all ate the same food at tea just now.’
‘But Mr Curtis didn’t eat anything!’ I said. ‘He only drank that cup of tea.’
‘Excellent observation, Watson!’ said Daisy. ‘Good. Now, that tea came from the same pot that we all had our tea from, and the milk from the same jug. So why is Mr Curtis ill, when none of the rest of us are?’
Just then Uncle Felix rushed past, pulling on his rain mack and galoshes.
‘Are you going out?’ asked Daisy.
‘Going to find O’Brian and fetch the doctor,’ said Uncle Felix briefly. ‘Things look bad upstairs, and the storm’s playing havoc with the phone lines. Best not to go alone.’
I did not envy him or O’Brian at all. Things sounded awful outside. I could hear thunder kettle-drumming away, and the rain hammering against the windowpanes – and every so often the outside of the windows was lit up fiercely white by lightning.
‘If we’re not back in half an hour, send out a boat, there’s a good niece.’
Daisy grinned and waved him out, but as soon as the door slammed behind him her face grew serious. We stared at each other, listening to the rain and the horrid noises filtering down from upstairs. It was pitch black outside now; it felt as though the house was a little wooden box that we were all stuck in together, alone on a deep dark sea.
‘What we must do now,’ said Daisy, above the noise of the storm, ‘is get closer, and see what we can discover.’
7
Up the twisting stairs we went, and along the first-floor landing, to lurk outside Mr Curtis’s door. We could hear Lady Hastings and Mrs Doherty fussing about inside. I knew we shouldn’t be there – and I knew I didn’t want to be. Mr Curtis kept making those horrid wails and groans – they nearly drowned out the storm outside. Flashes of lightning kept on striking the hallway full of shadows – they made me jump every time.
‘Honestly, Hazel,’ Daisy said, but she did not say it with feeling. I think she was beginning to feel as nervous as I was.
Then Uncle Felix came back with the doctor from Fallingford village. Unlike Felix, who looked smooth even with rain dripping from his hair and his trousers soaked and muddy, the doctor was fat and bald and flustered, and very out of breath. He rushed past us, saying, ‘Out of my way, young ladies, out of my way!’
Uncle Felix paused beside us; we both tensed, but he only frowned and wiped his wet monocle on his wet pocket-square.
‘We left O’Brian in the village,’ he told us. ‘Awful weather – he’s better off at home. But at least Dr Cooper’s here now.’
‘What’s wrong with Mr Curtis, Uncle Felix?’ asked Daisy, seeing an opportunity. ‘Will he be all right?’
‘Stop angling, Daisy,’ said Uncle Felix. ‘I’m not going to tell you anything.’
Daisy looked shocked. ‘But – Uncle Felix!’
‘Daisy, this isn’t a game. This is serious. Now I want you both to go up to the nursery and stay there until you’re told otherwise. All right?’ He glared at us through his monocle, now back in his eye, and then jerked open Mr Curtis’s door and strode in.
Daisy was left gasping. ‘I . . .’ she said. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him this weekend! He never tells me to go away!’
I thought back to those strange, worrying things that Uncle Felix had said to Mr Curtis in the maze. Was he simply behaving like a grown-up? Or . . . like a suspect?
‘What do we do now?’ I asked Daisy. ‘Go upstairs, like he told us to?’
‘Obviously not,’ she said. ‘That big Spanish chest over there opens, and there are some lattice bits that make perfectly good air-holes. If we hide in there we can stay and listen.’
I didn’t want to do that at all – but I did want to find out what was going on. ‘All right,’ I said.
We climbed in. Our elbows and knees bumped in the dark, and I felt very hot and claustrophobic. But Daisy was right – there were small holes in the side of the chest that we could breathe through, and almost see out of (if we squinted). Thunder rumbled and boomed, the rain lashed down against the windows, and Mr Curtis groaned and groaned.
And then his bedroom door opened and someone came bursting out. It was Lady Hastings, and she was simply howling. She held a handkerchief to her face, which had tear-tracks all down it, and ran into her room, sobbing. And a few minutes later, just as I was beginning to wonder if I should ever move about freely again, two more people came out after her.
8
It was the doctor and Uncle Felix, and they weren’t running or crying, but they did look very solemn. Uncle Felix pulled the door of the room to behind them, and they stood close together, facing each other. Daisy elbowed me in the ribs, and I held my breath.
‘It is serious, Mr Mountfitchet,’ said the doctor. ‘Very serious indeed. I wish I didn’t have to be the bearer of bad news, but I would say that now is the time to . . . to begin preparing for the worst. I have seen several of these cases before: as soon as this stage is reached – the purgings, the convulsions – there is very little hope left.’
‘Several of these cases?’ Uncle Felix repeated. ‘You have a diagnosis, then, Dr Cooper?’
‘Dysentery, I should say,’ Doctor Cooper replied. ‘A fairly clear-cut case. The loss of fluids, the stomach pains. As I say, I have seen—’
‘Dysentery? You’re sure?’ asked Uncle Felix, his voice sharp.
‘As sure as I can be without a closer examination of the matter – er – evacuated. Anything else would be pure speculation. After all, this is a reputable household.’