The Song of Seven

  Frans went back to the table and started checking the sums. They were very complicated, but Geert-Jan had worked out the first four without making any mistakes. The last one was wrong though.

  “Geert-Jan,” said Frans, “why didn’t you do this sum properly?”

  “Five!” said his pupil.

  “The fifth sum is wrong. You just wrote down any old thing!”

  Frans held the book under Geert-Jan’s nose. “Would you please work it out now?”

  “But I did, sir!” the boy noisily objected. “Six times eight is twenty-five, carry five – three times nine is thirty, plus five is forty… that’s right, isn’t it, sir?”

  Frans banged his fist on the table. Outside, there was another explosion, like an echo. “That’s enough!” he said. “You need to mind your p’s and q’s, young man – and your sixes and sevens – or otherwise…”

  “Six…” whispered Geert-Jan. For the first time, he was clearly thrown off balance. “What did you say, sir?” he asked, staring at Frans with wide eyes. “I… I don’t understand.”

  “You understand very well,” said Frans abruptly. “The fifth sum works exactly like the others, and you could do them.”

  With a show of great enthusiasm, Geert-Jan went back to work, crossing out some numbers and scribbling others above. But after a while he whined, “I don’t understand! That’s not my fault, is it, sir? You’re supposed to teach me!” His eyes were glistening when he looked at Frans. “Would you please explain it to me?” he asked.

  “Do you think,” said Frans, “you can make a fool out of me?”

  “Six times eight is eighty… no, forty-eight,” whispered Geert-Jan. “And three times nine… That’s seven!”

  Frans had heard the boom as well, and now he began to wonder if the boy knew about the Conspiracy of Seven as well.

  “You said I should mind my sixes and sevens…” Geert-Jan began. Actually, thought Frans, it was the magician who said that. “Was that seven?” asked Geert-Jan.

  “I think so,” replied Frans, with a frown. He’d never felt quite so uncertain before. But he couldn’t let it show, of course, so he said as sternly as possible, “I meant that you should pay attention to your sums!”

  They both looked at each other equally curiously.

  “Yes, sir,” said Geert-Jan meekly and he went back to his book.

  Three minutes later, Frans confirmed that the fifth sum had also been worked out correctly. He silently wrote a big tick beside it, without making any kind of comment like, “See? You can do it.”

  “Shall we go and have tea now, sir?” asked the boy.

  “All right,” said Frans.

  “What’s wrong with your foot?” asked Geert-Jan, when they were on their way to the Rococo Room. “There’s a bump on your head too. Did you fall downstairs?”

  “No, I was in a fight,” said Frans, without thinking.

  Geert-Jan stopped and looked at him almost with awe. “Who with?” he whispered.

  “Oh, it was just a joke,” said Frans.

  “How silly!” exclaimed Geert-Jan indignantly. He opened a door, which led to Gregorius’s Small Banqueting Hall. “It’s over there,” he said, pointing. Then he ran ahead of Frans and disappeared.

  Before long, Frans was climbing the twenty-two stairs to the Rococo Room, where he had sat before with the count. As he put his hand on the doorknob, he heard the count and his nephew talking. He could clearly make out what Geert-Jan was saying, “…that new tutor’s really horrible.”

  So he knocked before going in.

  He wonders where Ivan could be

  THIS IS FOUR

  Frans sat, feeling rather awkward, in the blue-and-white Rococo Room, sipping tea and looking at the two Grisensteins. They resembled each other, great-uncle and nephew – both slim and blond, they had the same narrow and inscrutable face. But their eyes were different, and so was their behaviour.

  The count made casual and pleasant conversation, and now and then he tried to involve his nephew. Geert-Jan, though, was wearing his blank expression again, and when he replied, he did his best to be as cheeky as he could while still being polite. He said nothing to his tutor, just sneaked the occasional look at him.

  The count really should put him in his place! thought Frans.

  Count Grisenstein kept chatting away pleasantly, but at one point Frans saw a flash of an expression that was far from friendly. That made it clear that he’d behave differently if he were talking to his nephew in private. The relationship between the two definitely left a lot to be desired.

  Frans had a sudden, clear realization that his own sympathies were with Geert-Jan – in spite of the boy’s bad behaviour. He felt hurt when he remembered his pupil’s opinion of him. “That new tutor’s really horrible.” If he only knew how and why I came here! he thought angrily. But after some reflection he came to the conclusion that it would be best if he just pretended to be a completely ordinary tutor, with a completely ordinary student, in a completely ordinary house.

  As they talked, he found out more details about the house. He didn’t hear anything about family secrets or prophecies, let alone the treasure. He did discover though, that Count Grisenstein had three members of staff: Selina, the housekeeper; Manus, who did all kinds of little jobs around the place; and Berend, who was a butler indoors and a gamekeeper outside. The name Ivan was not mentioned.

  Geert-Jan dropped his stand-offish attitude for a moment and asked, “Uncle Gradus, why did you fire Jan?”

  “My dear boy, the man was dangerous!” said the count. “I can’t have a coachman who drives the coach when he’s drunk.”

  “Aha,” said Frans, sensing an opportunity to find out more. “So now I understand why he was going so fast!”

  “I liked him,” said Geert-Jan.

  “I believe, young man,” said the count with a cold smile, “that it’s time for you to continue your lessons. How did it go, Mr Van der Steg? Have you had to give my nephew lines for punishment yet?”

  “Yes, uncle. A hundred lines,” said the boy.

  “Excellent!” said the count with satisfaction. “Finally something’s being done about your education.”

  “Why did you say I’d given you lines?” asked Frans irritably when he was walking back to the library with Geert-Jan.

  “I’m sure you were planning to,” said the boy. “How else are you going to make sure I mind my p’s and q’s? And my sixes and sevens?”

  “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” said Frans slowly. “But I’m not in favour of making students write down repeated lines for punishment.”

  “How about lines of poetry, then?” suggested Geert-Jan. “No, we have to go down these stairs, sir. I’d be happy to write out lines of poetry as punishment.”

  “Listen,” said Frans, stopping. “Students must leave the choice of the punishment to their teachers. Perhaps I won’t give you any punishment at all, if that’s what I decide. But when I come to think of it, I should probably give you a good hiding.”

  Geert-Jan just laughed, then skipped down a flight of stairs and waited for Frans to catch up.

  “Are we still not at the library yet?” said Frans. “I think we’re going the wrong way.”

  Geert-Jan put his finger to his lips. “Shush!” he whispered.

  “Will you just behave normally for once?” said Frans impatiently. And yet he wondered if it was possible to act normally in a house like this.

  “It’s Manus,” said Geert-Jan in a hushed voice. “He always tries to eavesdrop on everything. Didn’t you see him when we came out of the Rococo Room? He was going to sneak after us, so I went the long way round. But I’m afraid he’s tracked us down.”

  Frans could clearly hear the sound of furtive footsteps. “Don’t be silly!” he said loudly.

  Geert-Jan didn’t reply, but just beckoned him and walked on.

  Whether what he says is silly or not, thought Frans, it just goes to show that this environment is completely unsui
table for a boy of ten, even if he is bright for his age.

  He was glad when they finally got back to the library, where everything looked well-ordered and sensible. Geert-Jan walked around the whole room, rattling the handle of the hidden door and looking under the table before sitting down.

  “Why all the precautions?” asked Frans.

  “I already told you, sir,” replied the boy. “It’s none of Manus’s business how many lines I have to write.”

  “Geert-Jan,” said Frans, “you know very well that you’re imagining this Manus sneaking around! He’s only the chief cook and bottle-washer around here…”

  “But that’s just it,” said Geert-Jan. “He does all the jobs that Selina and Berend think are beneath them. He spies and…”

  “What does he look like?” asked Frans. “Is he dark and silent?”

  “No…” said Geert-Jan, looking at him with some surprise. “He has brown hair with all these little curls, and eyes like… like a haddock’s. Why do you want to know?”

  “Oh, no reason,” said Frans, who thought it was a good idea not to mention Ivan’s name. “It just seemed like a suitable description for someone who sneaks around and spies… But why would Manus do that?”

  “On Uncle Gradus’s orders, of course,” replied Geert-Jan.

  Something’s not right here, thought Frans. Had he stumbled upon some other intrigue? Then he reminded himself not to get entangled in mysteries. Hadn’t Aunt Wilhelmina already warned him about that? He could only help this imaginative young boy by keeping all his seven senses about him.

  “Well,” he said calmly, “I have nothing to hide. I hope the same applies to you. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Or to ask me about?”

  Geert-Jan picked up a pencil and began writing in his notebook. “No, sir,” he said grumpily. “I thought you were the one who was supposed to be asking and telling me things.”

  Frans didn’t let Geert-Jan see that his answer had disappointed him.

  “Then we’ll get back to work,” he said.

  In the second half of the afternoon, Geert-Jan behaved better, but he remained sullen and withdrawn. At half past five he went to the dining room with Frans for dinner. It was a dull and dreary room, but it was close to the kitchen so that Selina didn’t have to walk up so many stairs. Frans now realized that Count Grisenstein and his nephew were not as fortunate as they seemed, even though they had aristocratic titles and lived in a huge house. Selina was definitely not a good cook. Geert-Jan just played a little with the food he had on his plate, and paid no attention to his uncle, who kept telling him to eat up.

  “It’s an early night for you!” the count barked finally.

  “But I have to finish my work!” said Geert-Jan, looking at his tutor. “My lines.”

  “Nonsense!” said Frans. Even if he really had given Geert-Jan lines as punishment, he wouldn’t make him do them in the evening. The boy looked pale and tired.

  But Geert-Jan gave him a wicked grin. “You said you wanted to go on until midnight!” he said.

  “You didn’t think I meant it, did you?” said Frans, and he didn’t know what was more annoying – the nephew’s grin or the uncle’s pitying smile.

  After dinner, sour-faced Selina turned up to take Geert-Jan to bed. The boy said goodnight to his uncle, and then he asked Frans, “Why are you staying here tonight? I don’t have to work on Sunday, do I?”

  “I thought a little company would be fun for you, Geert-Jan,” said the count.

  The boy gave a scornful sniff and walked away. Selina followed him and began grumbling at him for some reason or other.

  No, this place is anything but fun! thought Frans. The boy really would be better off with Miss Rosemary.

  Suddenly he pricked up his ears. Selina’s voice, outside the room now, spoke a few words very clearly, “If that Ivan doesn’t…”

  Ivan!

  Then the count tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to accompany him to the Rococo Room.

  *

  Count Grisenstein held out a box of cigars, and Frans took one, even though he wasn’t keen on them. His host lit one for himself too and asked, “So what do you think of my nephew? Not the easiest of boys, of course,” he added, “but with careful education something could be made of him yet.”

  “Isn’t he terribly lonely?” asked Frans.

  “Lonely?” said the count, raising his eyebrows. “He has enough company here.”

  “But not the company of other children.”

  “Such a typical thing for a schoolteacher to say,” said the count calmly. He puffed on his cigar before continuing, “Geert-Jan is not like other children. His health is weak, as I already told you, and he is an anxious child. He prefers to play alone.” He leant forward in his chair. “I feel the need to warn you, Mr Van der Steg,” he said. “You can’t treat my nephew like the students at your village school…”

  Frans shifted position; his ankle hurt but he couldn’t rest his foot on a stool here. “So how should I treat him?” he asked.

  “With great care,” he said. “Although that doesn’t mean you can’t give him extra work as punishment. But Geert-Jan is no ordinary child. He has the most extraordinary imagination…” He was silent for a moment. “Maybe you’ve already heard that there’s a story attached to this house,” he continued, “a legend, a folk tale, a fairy story… They say there’s a treasure buried here.”

  “I’ve heard about that,” said Frans. “As you say, a legend, a folk tale, a fairy story…” He blew out a plume of smoke and let his gaze wander for a moment from the count to a painting of a lady in a hoop skirt and a powdered wig. She was very beautiful, but seemed somehow to be mocking him. A long-haired white cat sat on her lap.

  “Geert-Jan believes in that story,” said the count.

  “Of course he does,” said Frans. “That’s hardly surprising at his age.”

  “I’m glad to hear you have such a sensible opinion on the matter,” said Count Grisenstein. He looked at Frans through a cloud of blue smoke. “But Geert-Jan doesn’t only believe the story – he’s actually searching for the treasure. He spends all his time trying to find it! And that sometimes worries me…”

  “Ah, he’ll grow out of it,” said Frans in a calm tone. “Send him outside to play a little more…”

  “Well,” said the count, “I thought you should know. Maybe you can keep an eye on him… and put the brakes on his imagination by giving him plenty of proper work to do.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Frans.

  “And I’d appreciate it if you could keep me informed,” said the count. “Not just about his progress, but also about his fancies and fabrications.”

  “That goes without saying,” said the tutor.

  It goes without saying that I won’t keep him informed, thought Frans the Red, when he was finally alone. At least not until I know what the count’s up to, thought Frans van der Steg. One spy is enough for poor Geert-Jan.

  Manus had led him to the guestroom; he was a slimy little man with curly brown hair and eyes that Geert-Jan had described accurately. But where was Ivan?

  Frans looked around. There was only one door – he couldn’t see any hidden entrances or secret windows, but there were alcoves and corners. The windows were open and it was cold. He’d have to get under the bedcovers as soon as possible. For the first time in his life he’d be sleeping in a real four-poster bed.

  He soon blew out the candle and hopped into bed; there was no electric lighting in the House of Stairs. The bed was warm and soft and he went straight to sleep. But he had exhausting and confusing dreams about Geert-Jan and the count, and a whole bunch of spies, who all turned out to be his students.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he awoke with a start. Still half in his dream, he’d heard a door opening. He sat up… Was that something rustling? The door seemed to be closed though. He felt around for matches to light his candle, but couldn’t find any. He was too sleepy
to make any more effort, so he lay back down and went on dreaming. Later he woke up again, this time because the moon was shining on his pillow. He turned to the window and rubbed his eyes.

  On the window sill, sharply silhouetted against the bright sky, sat a black figure in the shape of a cat. It was a cat. Frans picked up his glasses from the bedside table and knocked over the candlestick. Oh well, it was light enough in the room.

  The cat hadn’t moved. He had the feeling the creature was staring at him.

  “…and keep your seven senses about you too, even if a little black beast turns up at your window…”

  Frans was wide awake now. He climbed out of bed and approached his unexpected visitor. A little black beast… no, it was a huge creature, a gigantic cat, and as black as pitch.

  “Hey… puss, puss…” he whispered.

  The animal glanced at him and went back to staring out of the window. Frans gave it a little stroke, but it remained as still as a statue.

  “Fine, you just sit there,” he said, returning to bed. “The window’s open, so you can leave whenever you like.” Now it seemed as if the cat were watching him again… “Mind your sixes and sevens!” he said to himself, with a chuckle. And he went back to sleep.

  When he awoke for the third time, he heard the rain. He looked at the window; it was already getting light. The cat was no longer there… had he dreamt that too? He soon discovered that he hadn’t though, when the animal jumped onto the bed.

  Like a magnificent panther, it prowled across Frans’s stomach towards his face – its tail upright, its round green eyes wide open. Staring down enigmatically, it started kneading away with its front paws, digging its claws into the sheet.

  “Good morning,” said Frans, not feeling particularly welcoming. “It seems rather early to be getting up. It’s Sunday today, don’t you know?”

  The cat snuggled down and bumped Frans’s chin with its nose.

  “Do you really have to lie right there?” Frans protested quietly. “You’re rather heavy, aren’t you?”