The count quickly backed away to the window, keeping his gun on Frans the whole time. “I shall lock you up in this room,” he said. “And soon, when you’re all alone, you can take a look at what’s inside the chest. It may be black, but it’s not locked.” He slipped the key into his right inside pocket and, without taking his eyes off Frans, reached his left hand out of the window and gave the ladder a push.
Frans clearly heard the thud as it hit the ground.
“So that’s that,” said the count. “Now you won’t be able to escape that way. And I’m off to inform the police.”
“You can’t do that!” said Frans. “You know very well that I’m not a thief.”
“Tell that to the police!” sneered Count Grisenstein. “Go on! Tell them everything: the legend of the Hidden Treasure, the fairy tale of the Sealed Parchment! Tell the police you dyed your hair green and climbed the ladder because it was all in the prophecy – the prophecy of Gregorius the Mad! Do you think they’ll believe your story? And they certainly won’t be surprised to hear that I dismissed you from your position as my dear, beloved nephew’s tutor.”
Frans bit his lips and said nothing. Count Grisenstein walked to the curtain, pushed it aside and opened the door behind it. He waved his pistol. “Goodbye, Mr Greenhair,” he said, and he disappeared. The door closed, and a key turned in the lock with a clunk.
Even though he knew better, Frans walked over to the door, but all he could do was confirm that he really was locked in. It was the only door in the room, made of heavy wood, with iron fittings. Count Grisenstein had beaten him and, more than ever, Geert-Jan was in his power.
I’ve done a wonderful job of completing my mission! Frans thought bitterly. I’ve let everyone down. I’ve messed up everything. First I stumbled into a magic circle and then into a trap…
He looked at the black chest and realized now that it wasn’t even made of ebony. He lifted the lid; there were blankets and mothballs inside.
“You idiot!” he cursed himself. “The count’s right. The police are never going to believe the truth.”
He walked to the window and looked outside.
Count Grisenstein came around the corner of the building, walked up to the ladder, stepped over it, looked up and raised his hat in a mocking show of politeness. Then he walked towards the front driveway and disappeared from sight.
Frans suddenly remembered that there was no telephone in the House of Stairs. The nearest police station was in Langelaan, and the count would have to go there himself, on foot. Berend and Manus were away, of course, with Jan Tooreloor and the coach.
Oh, if only he could escape now! It could be half an hour before the count returned… and if Frans wasn’t in the room, the police wouldn’t be able to do anything. What if he started banging, yelling and shouting in the hope that Geert-Jan would hear him…?
What had the count told his nephew? Did Geert-Jan know that his tutor had been lured into a trap and was shamefully imprisoned?
No, thought Frans. He didn’t want to start calling for help. But he couldn’t let the count have his way; he had to do everything in his power to free Geert-Jan!
Frans looked down. Count Grisenstein knew that heights made tutor Van der Steg dizzy, and of course the same must be true of Greenhair.
But then maybe Greenhair was more like Frans the Red – and Frans the Red knew no fear! Frans the Red would not allow himself to be locked up; he was going to escape through the open window, no matter how high it was.
He studied the face of the precipice, checked that his glasses were firmly on his nose, and then lowered himself out of the window. He clung on to the windowsill until his feet were on a protruding ledge. Then he moved carefully along the wall and, reaching out his hand, he grasped a drainpipe. He slid down it some way, then climbed over a canopy before clambering down a rough section of wall. Then he hit a dead end. He almost fell, but was able to grab hold of a gutter just in time. He tried not to think about how high up he still was; swinging his legs, he pulled himself up and rested on top of a bay window. Then he realized that he didn’t have to get down to the ground at all; he could just as easily climb in through another window.
“You deal with things here,” Jan Tooreloor had said. He didn’t have a clue how, but he knew he had to do something. He looked at his watch – it was half past eleven. With a shock, he thought the children might arrive at any moment, and the count and his servants weren’t there to send them away. There was no way to predict how the festivities would turn out but, he said to himself, it was essential for him to stay there and keep an eye on the situation.
He slid down a column to the nearest window, but it turned out to be locked and barred. There was nothing else for it but to start climbing again, which required a certain amount of willpower. First he went back up and around a chimney, startling a crow, which flapped around him for a while, cawing angrily. Then he covered some distance by drainpipe and, after a little swinging on a balcony, he finally reached a window that was open. And he was back inside the House of Stairs.
Frans wondered if his green hair had turned grey by now – he’d certainly skinned his hands and ripped the knee of his trousers, and he’d also virtually dislocated his shoulders. He couldn’t stop and rest for long though; he quietly began walking through the building, into rooms and out again, heading upwards whenever he could, looking for the attic above Gregorius’s Small Banqueting Hall. From there, he’d be able to keep an eye on events without being spotted. A steep, narrow staircase finally took him to his destination. He stopped for a moment… it was so quiet! Then he walked silently to the arched opening and looked down.
He could see the stairs and galleries, decorated with paper chains and streamers, and far down below, all alone, was Geert-Jan. He looked very small and vulnerable, but Frans couldn’t see his face. Was he anxious and disappointed, or filled with excitement and anticipation? He saw that the boy was holding his straw hat in his hand. Had Count Grisenstein given it back to him? Geert-Jan didn’t think his ally had abandoned him, did he?
Then Frans raised his head to listen. He could hear noises outside – as bright as birds in the morning, as warming as the sun in springtime, but also as worrying as clouds in a summer sky… the children!
He turned around, walked across the attic and looked out of a window. There they came – so the gate at the back was open. Jan Tooreloor had probably been standing at the front entrance to divert attention. It was a real parade, a cheerful procession, in spite of the grey and drizzly day. The children didn’t seem at all shy or intimidated; he could hear them chatting and laughing. As they came closer to the building, they got a little quieter. A few of them looked up and Frans quickly pulled his head back inside.
He went back to the arch and looked down into the room again. Geert-Jan had disappeared; he’d gone to meet his guests, of course. Now Ivan wandered into view – he strolled across the room and hopped up a staircase opposite.
Frans wondered if the cat could sense the atmosphere of anticipation that seemed to fill the house. Soon the children’s voices would echo around its walls…
But, he suddenly thought, that surely can only be a good thing, can’t it? The children are Geert-Jan’s friends, aren’t they? And the more lines of the prophecy come true, the better! He smiled.
Now they were inside the house. He could hear them arriving, their voices mingling with the sound of Selina’s grumbling protests, which were soon drowned out.
But then another sound wiped the smile off his face.
He left his lookout again to take a peek outside.
Of course… Roberto was coming too; he’d promised, after all, even saying that he might dare to venture all the way into the house. It wasn’t Roberto, though, that he could see approaching along the driveway. It was the Biker Boy himself, wearing a crash helmet and with his scooter roaring away.
Frans frowned and twitched his green eyebrows in disapproval. He could have expected help from Roberto, but the B
iker Boy would only cause even more confusion. The boy had brought his guitar with him too – this was going to be interesting!
Frans left the attic; he went through the arch and down the stairs without a handrail. He stopped on the top gallery and leant over the balustrade. No one saw him, except for Ivan, who was sitting directly opposite him on another balustrade.
The people in the room below were only paying attention to one another. Geert-Jan (wearing his hat) was the centre of attention; all of the children were crowding around him with birthday wishes and parcels large and small. Frans soon had to duck down though, as the children were starting to wander around, climbing the lower stairs and looking at everything. For a while he sat crouched behind the balustrade, wondering if he should stay hidden or not. He decided to keep on hiding, as he didn’t have any better ideas, no matter how hard he racked his brain. He couldn’t see much through the railings, but he could hear plenty. They were all talking at the same time, so he could only catch a few words. He heard Maarten ask about Frans the Red. And a little later, Arie demonstrated his cap gun. That reminded him of Count Grisenstein. Frans worried that it might be irresponsible to allow his students to remain in this room, where the master of the house might appear at any moment with a loaded pistol in his hand…
After a while, the children gathered around to give a new arrival an enthusiastic welcome.
Frans dared to stand up again now, and he tiptoed down another flight of stairs, as he’d be able to see and hear more from the second gallery. He hoped for a moment that it was Roberto who was receiving this warm welcome… but one look told him it was still the Biker Boy. He was a little annoyed that his students hadn’t shown better judgement. The children were actually welcoming the Biker Boy with something like awe and admiration. Marian was the only one who didn’t seem entirely happy.
“Isn’t Roberto coming?” she asked in a clear voice.
Geert-Jan had taken off the straw hat again and was turning it around in his fingers. “I… I think so,” he said uncertainly.
“Roberto can’t come,” said Maarten, “because the Biker Boy’s already here.”
“And the Biker Boy has a guitar!” cried Kai. “Come on, it’s
Lots of loud chattering, all at the same time… Then Marian said – What a nice girl she is, thought Frans – “No, we have to wait for Frans the Red to get here.”
Again, more yelling…
“…Frans the Red…”
“Why isn’t he here?”
“Frans the Red!”
Greenhair’s name wasn’t mentioned.
Frans took a step back, and when he looked again, he saw that Geert-Jan was speaking, but the boy was talking so quietly that he couldn’t hear a word. Just as he was wondering if he should show himself after all, the Biker Boy spoke up. He’d taken off his crash helmet and was making a big show of combing his hair. “That is such rubbish!” he said slowly and painfully clearly. “It’s much more fun without old people around, don’t you think?” He brushed aside the paper hats that the children offered and added, “How are you ever going to have any fun with a schoolteacher here, watching your every move?”
His fingers had started to pick out a scale on the strings of his guitar.
Then there were lots of raised voices; some agreeing with him, others disagreeing.
The Biker Boy ignored them – he walked around the room, going up and down scales and tuning his guitar. The children followed him as if he were the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Frans watched it all with a disapproving frown. His frown grew even deeper as the Biker Boy tossed back his long hair, started tapping his foot on the wooden floor and launched into a song – although it was barely a song, thought Frans, as it had no real melody. Most of the children seemed to know it though, and they sang along with the chorus.
“Pah!” Frans tutted at himself. “Who cares what they sing, as long as they give it their all?” Slowly he crept down another flight of stairs, to the lowest gallery.
The Biker Boy began a new song, tapping his foot on the floor, faster and faster, and making the strings of his guitar ring out. The children swayed in time to the music, their paper hats wobbling on their heads. Geert-Jan moved through the crowd with a hop, skip and a jump, handing out chocolates from Aunt Wilhelmina’s box with one hand, and streamers with the other.
Frans glanced over at Ivan, who was walking restlessly to and fro on a balustrade. Any minute now, he’s going to join in, Frans thought.
Roberto sang; he didn’t have an unpleasant voice, even though it cracked occasionally. The children seemed to think it was great. Frans began to listen more closely… He could understand the words of the song now; they felt both ancient and brand-new…
Go up the stairs
and down again
and dance a happy dance!
Around the house
and back again.
This could be your lucky chance!
Rosemary, Rosemary, have a fine day!
Knife-grinder’s daughter, toorelay!
Tooreloor, Tooreloor, skip and dance,
Jan Thomtidom, hop and prance!
Up the stairs
and down the stairs
All the day and night!
Around the house
and back again.
We’ll all be merry and bright!
High up on the balustrade, Ivan opened his mouth wide and let out a yowl that he usually saved for wild nights with a full moon. But his wailing was lost in the noise down below.
All of the children sang the song again, stamping hard on the floor.
Geert-Jan and Kai began to do a kind of war dance and Arie fired his gun again. Maarten tooted a party blower and Marian threw a streamer in the air. Other children followed their lead. Selina came dashing in, horrified, and was soon tangled up in ribbons of coloured paper. Undeterred, the Biker Boy started the song again, even though his voice could barely be heard above the din. One of the suits of armour toppled over with a thundering crash. More and more streamers flew across the room, twisting into a tangled chaos.
Frans watched the pandemonium, open-mouthed.
Rosemary, Rosemary, have a fine day!
Knife-grinder’s daughter, toorelay!
A door opened on one of the long sides of the room, and Miss Rosemary appeared, in her elegant coat with white dots. She took a couple of steps and then stopped, with her eyebrows slightly raised, but otherwise very calm. After her came Aunt Wilhelmina, who looked shocked, Jan Tooreloor, who seemed delighted, and Mr Thomtidom, who viewed the scene with a scholar’s interested gaze.
Tooreloor, Tooreloor, skip and dance,
Jan Thomtidom, hop and prance!
Then a door opened on one of the short sides of the room, and Count Grisenstein appeared, closely followed by Berend and two almost equally hefty policemen. For the first time, the count had lost his cool composure; his mouth kept making strange noises and he was waving his arms around. But he didn’t have a pistol in his hand now. One of the policemen looked hesitantly at his truncheon, but the other one had a better idea. He put his whistle to his lips and gave it a loud blow – the shrill note cut through everything.
And immediately there was silence, broken only by the rustling of paper and a deep meow from Ivan. All of the children turned to stare at Count Grisenstein, who had pulled himself together and was staring back at them with ice-cold eyes in a face as white as marble.
He gets into the party mood and a song fills the House of Stairs
THIS IS SEVEN
Frans was still standing motionless by the balustrade. I’ve got to do something, he thought feverishly. But what? I need to make sure this party ends well…
With a sudden flash of inspiration, he raised his voice and said, “Roberto!”
Now everyone turned to look at him, and a cry went up among the children: “GREENHAIR!”
Frans leant over the balustrade and said, in a loud and commanding voice, “Play another song, Roberto.
The Song of Seven!”
Roberto obeyed immediately, slowly strumming the first chords.
Do you know the Seven, the Seven,
Gently and a little hesitantly, the tune echoed around the room.
Do you know the Seven Ways?
Frans glanced at the count, who had turned even paler now, with fear or fury, and he quickly headed down the final flight of stairs.
People say that I can’t dance,
But I can dance like the King of France…
Roberto strummed a loud chord and the children sang, their voices soft and trembling with excitement:
This is one.
Frans stood on the bottom step and raised his hand, as if he were standing in front of the class and giving them a singing lesson. And then the children sang it again, as he beat time:
Do you know the Seven, the Seven,
Do you know the Seven Ways?
People say that I can’t dance,
But I can dance like the King of France!
Roberto tapped his foot. This is one. The children stamped on the floor. This is two. And then they went straight into the song for the third time. Roberto sang along with them, playing as if his life depended on it.
People say that I can’t dance…
Geert-Jan took the lead; he held Marian by the hands and skipped happily around.
But I can dance like the King of France!
The song went on, accompanied by loud stamping:
This is one – This is two – This is three!
All the children danced along to the next verse. The floor creaked beneath their feet.
This is one – This is two – This is three – This is four!
They were all whirling around together; hats flew off, and the stairs seemed to be trembling and shaking. Jan Tooreloor sang along and even did a few dance steps.