The Song of Seven

  Everyone chimed in and noisily agreed with his suggestion.

  “Geert-Jan has to be freed as quickly as possible,” said Marian.

  “And the treasure has to be found,” said Kai.

  Frans walked slowly to his desk, picked up a sheet of paper and said, “Fine, I’ll do it. Quieten down, all of you.”

  The children did as they were told. And Frans wrote:

  To Count Grisenstein

  The House of Stairs

  Near Langelaan

  Monday 28 September

  Noble sir,

  To my great regret, I received your letter of the 22nd of this month too late, and as a result your coachman did not find me at home.

  Then he thought, I just hope Jan Tooreloor hasn’t told him anything different. No, no, he’s part of the conspiracy, so he’ll have done what he had to do. He went on writing:

  I sincerely hope you do not hold this against me, and I would very much welcome the opportunity for a conversation with you. I am at your disposal every evening this week…

  But then he thought, If I say “every evening”, I might end up missing my evening class next Friday too, but then I suppose that if I get the job I won’t be doing much studying anyway.

  I await your response with interest.

  Respectfully yours…

  Then it was half past three, and the children crowded around his desk to read the letter and to give it their approval. They were all gabbling away at the same time, and asked the same question over and over again, “Are you going to see Miss Rosemary now?”

  “Go on! Scram! The lot of you!” shouted Frans, suddenly realizing what a strange situation it was. Who was in charge here? Him or the children?

  When he was alone in the classroom, he read through the letter again and noticed he’d signed it as FRANS THE RED. That wouldn’t do, of course, so with a sigh he picked up a blank sheet of paper and wrote out the letter again. He found an envelope in his desk drawer, wrote the address on it and said, “Right, so that’s that.”

  It was almost four by the time he left the school with the letter in his pocket. He’d expected to see a few children still hanging around outside, but the playground was deserted; there wasn’t a child in sight.

  “And it’s just as well,” he said to himself. “Those children are getting far too big for their boots – it’s as if I’m a puppet in some play they’ve made up. And as for the letter, I may have written it, but I’m not going to post it yet. First I want to… Yes, what do I actually want to do? I want to talk to Miss Rosemary first… No, I don’t even know if I want to do that. I don’t like the thought of her holding all the strings. But I suppose I have no choice! Then I might as well head straight there, and I’ll be home in time for tea.”

  The road to Sevenways was quiet and peaceful, as it had been the previous times, but as Frans got closer, he became aware of sounds he’d never heard there before – lots of high-pitched voices, all speaking at the same time.

  The children! He should have known. Of course they wanted to go and see the place where his strange adventures had taken him.

  At the clearing, Frans had to brake to avoid an obstacle: a messy pile of bikes that had been thrown down onto the ground. The children were all there, the whole class. They were chattering and screaming, and some of them were singing:

  Do you know the Seven, the Seven,

  Do you know the Seven Ways?

  Most of them had gathered around the signpost. A few were staring at the path that led to Roberto’s tent and the cannon guarding it, while others were investigating the tumbledown pub. Two boys were struggling to get the big double doors open, and Kai was perilously leaning out of a window on the top floor.

  “Hey!” shouted Frans, climbing off his bike. “Kai, get back inside and come downstairs this instant!”

  The children by the signpost were delighted to see him. The girls started dancing around and singing:

  “This is one, this is two, this is three…”

  Kai yelled something and waved his arms. Maarten came running up triumphantly, holding the pub sign.

  “Calm down!” called Frans. “And come here! That includes you, Kai!”

  Soon they were standing around him, but they were all talking at the same time, and it was impossible for Frans to speak or to make any sense of what they were saying.

  But suddenly there was silence – a silence broken only by the rattle of wheels and the crack of a whip.

  Down the road from Roskam, the old coach came rolling towards them, with Jan Tooreloor sitting up front.

  THAT WAS FOUR and now for Part Five

  5

  FRANS BECOMES ENTANGLED IN THE CONSPIRACY

  He is initiated by Miss Rosemary

  THIS IS ONE

  The coachman brought the carriage to a halt close to the signpost. As Frans and the children stared at him, he responded with a sneer. Then he jumped down from the front and opened the door.

  Frans and the children stared even harder, although the person who climbed out of the coach was not who they’d expected. It was a woman with a small build, as dainty as a porcelain figurine. Her face was white and pink, with large dark eyes. She’d wrapped a colourful flowery scarf elegantly around her head, and a snow-white curl had slipped out from under it, just over her left eyebrow. She was wearing a black coat with white dots and had a large basket on her arm. The coachman swiftly took it from her, so it seemed he did in fact know how to be polite. She thanked him with a radiant smile and said, “It was very kind of you, Jan, to bring me here.” Then she took a sugar lump from one of her pockets and gave it to the horse.

  “I’d happily take you all the way home, Miss Rosemary,” said the coachman. “And as for this commotion here…” He glowered at Frans and the children.

  “There’s no need to worry, Jan,” said Miss Rosemary, as she looked at the children. “Please put my basket down. I shall just…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. The coachman put the basket on the ground, and then pounced on Maarten and snatched the pub sign from his hand. “How dare you?!” he yelled furiously. “Destroying my property!”

  Maarten gaped at him, scared half to death.

  “Calm down, Jan,” said Miss Rosemary. She walked up to him and laid a hand on his arm.

  The coachman backed off. “Only because it’s you who’s asking,” he growled. “Otherwise I’d…”

  “I’ll make sure nothing else unpleasant happens here,” said Miss Rosemary, interrupting him. She stood on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear.

  The coachman tapped his cap, returned to the coach without looking back and climbed up, with the sign clutched firmly under his arm. Then he drove off in the direction of Langelaan.

  Miss Rosemary turned to Frans. “So you’re Mr Van der Steg,” she said, holding out her hand in a gesture that made Frans feel the urge to plant a kiss on it. But he didn’t (kissing her hand seemed so ridiculous with all those children standing around); he simply shook her hand.

  “And you must be his students,” Miss Rosemary said to the children. “Luckily I can see now that you know how to be quiet too. The din you were making just now could be heard almost all the way to the House of Stairs… Imagine if it had reached the ears of Count Grisenstein.”

  It was so quiet now that Frans could hear an insect buzzing and the wind gently rustling the leaves.

  “Now leave your bikes nice and neatly by the Red Man,” said Miss Rosemary.

  “The red man?” whispered Maarten.

  “That’s what this pub used to be called: ‘The Red Man’, Tooreloor’s Tavern. Didn’t you see the man on the sign? Put down your bikes and come with me, all of you. I’d like to have a word with you all. That includes you, Mr Van der Steg.”

  Shortly after that, Miss Rosemary was lightly treading the path to the Herb Garden, with the children following her. They walked two by two, without being asked, and Frans, who was bringing up the rear, noticed that any whispering wa
s silenced as soon as the small woman put her finger to her lips.

  He was almost jealous. She barely comes up to my waist, but she has my whole class under her thumb, he thought enviously.

  First they walked some way through the wood, and then the path took them through a field where a few patches of heather were still in bloom. About ten minutes later, they reached Miss Rosemary’s house. The path didn’t end there, but carried on. The house was small and white, with a thatched roof. Climbing roses and creepers grew up the walls, and boxes of geraniums hung beneath the windows with their pink shutters. There was a large garden all around, divided into sections by low, neatly trimmed hedges. In front of the house was a lawn with glorious borders of colourful flowers: late roses and Michaelmas daisies, chrysanthemums and dahlias. A flagstone path led to the front door.

  Miss Rosemary opened the wooden gate, which had the words “The Herb Garden” painted on it. “This is my flower garden,” she said. “The herbs grow around the side of the house and behind it. Can you smell them?” And indeed, all kinds of vague but delightful scents drifted through the air.

  A big sheepdog ran up, barking. “Be quiet, Chive,” she said. “These are our friends.” The dog wagged his tail and jumped up her. “Welcome, welcome, my dears! Come on inside,” said Miss Rosemary. Then she suddenly let out a quiet gasp. “Oh, my goodness, how foolish of me!” she said. “I’ve gone and left my basket of groceries back at the signpost.”

  “Shall I…” three boys began at once. But Miss Rosemary looked over the tops of their heads at Frans. “Mr Van der Steg, would you please fetch it? You have the longest legs of all of us.”

  Frans was, of course, happy to do so. But as he walked back to Sevenways with large strides, it occurred to him that she hadn’t asked him because of his long legs.

  *

  His suspicions grew even stronger when he returned to the house in the Herb Garden. It was less than fifteen minutes later; he’d ridden his bike on the way back. Miss Rosemary thanked him and took the basket before leading him to a room that was not large, but where all the children had somehow managed to find a place to sit. They were on chairs and on the floor, with glasses of lemonade and cinnamon biscuits. When Frans came in, he felt as if he’d interrupted a conversation, even though they all said hello nicely.

  She must have told them something I’m not allowed to know, he thought. Maybe she really did leave the basket behind on purpose! That’s not right! Who’s supposed to be part of this conspiracy? Me or the children?

  He looked at his hostess, who was standing in the middle of the room. She’d taken off her coat and was wearing a grey silk dress with a large white lace collar. Her age was hard to guess; she was much younger than her sister Wilhelmina, but her hair was as white as snow. She reminded him of a lady from the days when aristocrats wore wigs; she really should have been dressed in a hoop skirt and surrounded by courtiers in knee-breeches and velvet jackets. But she looked perfectly at ease with the children gathered around her.

  “Finish your lemonade, my dears,” she said in her lilting voice, “because you really need to be off now. You’re far from home and you have to be back in the village before dark.”

  It no longer surprised Frans that his students instantly obeyed her. They got up without too much fuss and didn’t break a single glass. Then they followed her to the front door and shook her hand, one by one.

  “Your teacher’s going to stay here for a little while,” said Miss Rosemary. “He’ll bring you up to date later. And there’s already something you can do to help him.” She looked at Frans and said, “Do you have the letter with you? Then they can post it.”

  A murmur went up among the children.

  “Can I do it…?”

  “Can I…?”

  “Let me…!”

  “The letter to Count Grisenstein,” said Frans. “Here it is. But it doesn’t have a stamp.”

  “I’ll put one on it for you,” said Miss Rosemary. She took the letter from his hand and left the room.

  Returning just a moment later, she looked around the crowd of children and gave the letter to Jo. “You can post it,” she said, “and the others will make sure you don’t forget.”

  “How could she ever forget something that important?” said Maarten, a little enviously.

  “And now off you go home, my dears,” said Miss Rosemary. “Remember what I told you.”

  The children said goodbye to her again, and waved at Frans as they dashed off.

  Then Frans asked, “What did you say to them, Miss… um…”

  “My name,” she said, “is Rosemary Grysenstein, but you can call me Miss Rosemary, like everyone else.”

  Frans stared at her, the children forgotten. “Your surname’s Grysenstein?!” he said.

  “That’s Grysenstein with a Y,” said Miss Rosemary. “I’m not related to the count. It’s just a coincidence that our names sound the same. Or maybe it isn’t a coincidence. My father always said we were distant relations, the Grisensteins with an I and the Grysensteins with a Y… through our great-great-great-grandmother, Rosemary the knife-grinder’s daughter…”

  And suddenly a couple of silly lines of verse popped into Frans’s head:

  Rosemary, Rosemary, have a fine day!

  Knife-grinder’s daughter, toorelay!

  But of course he didn’t sing them out loud. He just said “Oh.”

  “But that story isn’t the point right now,” said Miss Rosemary. “Let’s go inside.” She walked ahead of him into the front room, where she briskly began collecting the glasses on a tray. “I do know them, though, the Grisensteins with an I,” she continued. “When I was a girl, I often played with the previous count – in the gardens and woods around the House of Stairs. And I helped him to search for the treasure.”

  “The previous count?” asked Frans.

  “Yes, Geert-Jan’s father, Gilbert Grisenstein. We were the same age, and when I was ten or eleven years old – that’s longer ago than you might think – he was my best friend.”

  Miss Rosemary picked up the tray and said, “Please, sit down, and I’ll go and make a cup of tea.”

  Frans did as she asked, and for a short while he was alone in the room. The furniture was old-fashioned, with a few slightly worn but comfortable chairs, a couple of tables that had been polished to a shine, a bulbous cabinet and an antique sideboard. On the floor was a rug with birds and flowers on it; the wallpaper was striped and the curtains had flounces. Small oval paintings hung on the walls, there were plenty of potted plants scattered around, and the sideboard was covered with little ornaments. It was a friendly room, and a good match for his hostess’s appearance.

  And yet, thought Frans, no matter how friendly she looks, I have no doubt that she’s capable of holding and tugging all the strings!

  The dog suddenly appeared from under a table, stretched, and sat down opposite Frans, studying him.

  “Chive wants to get to know you better,” said Miss Rosemary, coming back in with the tea. “He guards my house.”

  “Do you live here on your own?” asked Frans.

  “Not entirely alone,” she replied. “I do have Chive, after all.” She sat down too, and the dog lay at her feet. “A man sometimes comes in the morning to help me with the heavy work,” she added. “But otherwise I do everything myself.”

  “I’ve heard that you grow herbs,” said Frans.

  “Yes, it’s a nice little business,” she said with some pride. “I sell them in all the villages hereabouts, and in the town too. I work in my garden every day, but obviously I wear different clothes then, and my rubber boots.”

  Frans tried to imagine her with boots on her feet and a spade in her hands, but found that he couldn’t.

  “But you haven’t come here about my herbs,” continued Miss Rosemary.

  “No,” said Frans, “your nephew Roberto and Aunt Wilhelmina sent me to you to… to be, um, initiated, I believe.”

  “Oh, but that’s already happ
ened,” said Miss Rosemary.

  “Already happened? But how? And when?”

  “When I told the children to post your application letter. That makes you one of the seven conspirators.” Miss Rosemary offered Frans a chocolate from a silver dish, took one herself, and began to tell him more about the House of Stairs and the previous Count Grisenstein.

  “When we grew up, we remained friends, Gilbert and I,” she said. “But we lost touch during the war, and after that we rarely saw each other. Gilbert was a rather adventurous type, just like his ancestor, Sir Grimbold. He was nearly always travelling, and I’d receive the occasional picture postcard from the strangest locations in the world…” She paused and gazed thoughtfully into space.

  She must have been a very beautiful young woman, thought Frans. That adventurous Gilbert was a fool to go travelling and just send her picture postcards. And he asked her, “So who was living in the House of Stairs back then?”

  “The House of Stairs remained empty for a long time,” replied Miss Rosemary. “It might sound strange, given the shortage of housing after the war, but you’d have to be a Grisenstein or a little bit crazy to want to live there. It’s too big for any ordinary family, and it’s no good for any other purpose, such as a hotel or an office. All those stairs… far too impractical. But then Count Gilbert wrote to say that he was coming back. He was in love with a girl from Honolulu or Rio de Janeiro, or maybe from Torelore…” She smiled briefly and said, “He’d fallen for a girl he’d met on one of his journeys and he wanted to bring her to his ancestral home as his bride. But the House of Stairs had been terribly neglected, and restoring it was going to take some time. So he stayed abroad and married her there.”