Return to Ribblestrop

  ‘You skated before, huh?’ said Flavio. ‘It looks tricky to me.’

  ‘Figure-skating champion, University of Geneva. I was sixteen, so I’m well out of practice. Are you up for a spin, Giles?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the headmaster. ‘I think I’ll stay back and watch Oli.’

  Professor Worthington launched herself into a long, graceful arc, her arms horizontal and her right leg raised. She managed three quick pirouettes, then shoved off again in an elegant bounding motion. In seconds she was in the centre of the lake, in the thick of a racing mob. Before long, she and Millie had divided everyone into teams and a bizarre ice-hockey game was raging. One group kept its blazers on; the other side stripped them off and piled them up as goalposts. The puck was a punctured football, beaten flat, and Henry had soon broken enough tree branches so that everyone had a suitable stick.

  Meanwhile, the engineering party had chosen a site and it was over there that the headmaster tottered. Oli had made some adjustments to the craft’s buoyancy and, with a recharged radio, he was keen to put it through its paces. It had a set of bright halogen lights and he had the idea that he could use it for underwater exploration. His dream was to rig it up with a camera, but that would require a few more days’ construction. It was long and sleek: sharp as a torpedo.

  Sam and Ruskin trundled the mobile-drill into position and it was soon boring through the ice.

  ‘Hey!’ said Sam, looking down. ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re looking at,’ said Ruskin. Ruskin’s face was still a mass of sellotape and crooked lenses.

  ‘Underneath us. Look! Oli, come and look at this! Sir! I can see gold!’

  Sam had noticed something wonderful. It was a whirl of white ice, rising from the depths of the lake. The white water seemed to be locked inside blue ice – a form within a form. Jets of bubbles were corkscrewing from below, and they had been caught and frozen. It was a frozen whirlpool: a vertical torrent, twisted around itself and held absolutely still. At its base was a bar of shining gold.

  ‘It’s like a tree,’ said Sam. ‘It’s an ice-tree . . .’

  ‘Quite beautiful,’ said the headmaster. ‘It looks like an underwater fountain.’

  Oli eased the submarine in through the hole that they’d cut. In seconds, lights blazing, it was nosing amongst the branches of the ice-sculpture, illuminating its blues and silvers. The controls were definitely more responsive and he was confident enough to plunge it deeper and deeper, so that it circled the torrent.

  ‘Thermo-dynamics,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘A miracle of science.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘It’s what happens when waters of varying velocities and temperatures meet,’ continued the professor. ‘They freeze at a different rate. Gather round, everyone – we can learn a lot from this. Oli, see if you can get the light to its root – where the bubbles start. You’ll have to go deeper.’

  The hockey game had finished, and most of the children were wet and bruised. Some had chattering teeth and most were exhausted. Miles, inevitably, was bloody. He was wet through, wrapped in Henry’s blazer.

  Oli did as he was told, dropping the sub another five or six metres until its pool of light seemed worryingly dim. The radio-control crackled with static, as if it was frightened.

  ‘Yes,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘I’ve got a feeling about this. Just turn her round, turn her round a bit . . . there. What do you see?’

  ‘Is it gold?’ said Sanjay.

  There was a little tremor of excitement. Most of the children were on their knees, staring through the ice. The submarine turned again and, sure enough, the flash turned itself into a long, solid bar of precious metal.

  ‘It’s a sword,’ said Miles.

  ‘Don’t be fanciful,’ said the professor. ‘I don’t want anyone diving for that. What you’re looking at is brass and it’s just unromantic old pipework. You’ve discovered a pump and a drainage system, Oli.’

  ‘What does it drain?’ said Millie.

  Professor Worthington looked around. ‘Where’s Tomaz?’ she said. ‘He’ll know.’

  Tomaz blushed. ‘I think there’s a way of draining the lake,’ he said. ‘But I never found out how it was done.’

  ‘He’s absolutely right, of course. You see? We can have a lesson after all! This is an artificial lake, children. Any artificial lake or pond has either to be aerated – Sanchez, that’s one for you.’

  ‘Um, aerated, Miss – to add air, or refresh.’

  ‘Very good – in other words oxygenate, to stop it dying. Either that, or its waters must constantly be replenished. Now we’re fairly close to Neptune, which may contain some of the switches. But I would say that we are also very close to the lake’s pump-room. There’s a castle in Kent that has some of these features and I wouldn’t mind betting its pump-room is just the same. What’s the name of the local river, someone? Anjoli?’

  Anjoli jumped in surprise. ‘Pardon, Miss?’

  ‘You’re not listening at all, are you? You were poking Brother Doonan.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss, I—’

  ‘What river takes the excess water from the Ribblestrop lake and supplies water when the level gets low?’ There was a forest of hands, but Anjoli was clueless.

  ‘Is it the River Strop, Miss?’ said Kenji. ‘We put it on our map – it’s a tributary river.’

  ‘Excellent, Kenji. How old are you?’

  ‘Seven, Miss.’

  ‘Anjoli, how old are you? Stand up straight!’

  ‘Ten and a half, Miss. Ten and—’

  ‘He puts you to shame, doesn’t he? Three years younger and he has a power of concentration I think you leave in your dormitory. I’ve been watching you this term, Anjoli – I was hoping for a bit more application. Put your tie on properly. I hate this habit of wearing it round your head. Miles, as well, you look like a pair of tramps.’

  There was a crackle of static. It was like a cough. Then, as everyone turned to look at Oli’s radio, a soft voice emerged from the little speaker. ‘Cuthbertson! Please . . . help me!’

  Everyone crept closer.

  Oli clicked switches and twiddled a knob. He put his ear to it, listening intently.

  ‘I thought this was just a transmitter,’ said Ruskin.

  ‘No,’ said Oli. ‘I adapted it from a receiver. I get a few odd voices now and then. I got Radio Afghanistan once.’

  ‘Someone needs help,’ said Asilah. ‘Can you send a message?’

  ‘Or they’re fooling about,’ said Sam.

  Oli groaned. ‘We’re losing the sub again,’ he said. ‘This happened last time! It’s because the frequency’s so dodgy.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Sam. But Oli wouldn’t. He pressed more switches and changed position. The radio started to cough and buzz, and all at once there was another horrible cry. It was if somebody was trapped inside the box, breathing hard. Then the same desperate words: ‘Help me . . . help me, Cuthbertson!’ But it was faint and failing.

  ‘Who’s Cuthbertson?’ said Doonan.

  ‘It’s interfering!’ cried Oli. ‘We’re going to lose Millie’s sub!’ He was on his knees. Far below, the toy submarine was rising, but its course was erratic. Sanjay knelt by the ice-hole next to him and rolled up his sleeves. The lights were a long way down still, but at least it was moving upwards.

  ‘She’s coming,’ cried Sanjay. Sam and Ruskin leaned into the hole, ready to retrieve the precious craft. At last it broke the surface and the boys grabbed at it with relief.

  At exactly that moment, disaster struck.

  First Flavio’s crocodile slipped its leash. He would never work out how it happened, but at least he learned never to trust bored-looking reptiles. The creature rolled a full circle on its back, snapped its jaws, and the leash was off – then it simply ran. It didn’t run far, because it knew exactly where it was going. As the submarine was lifted from the ice-hole, the crocodile slipped underneath it, un
der the boys’ arms, and into the freezing water. Flavio leaped, but was way too slow. As that happened, the headmaster shouted in surprise and stepped backwards. He trod hard on Sanchez’s foot with his ice-skate, grabbed him, and both were suddenly slithering on the ice on their backsides.

  The assembled crowd looked to where the headmaster was pointing, horror in his eyes: the great head of the Neptune statue was moving. The children were used to it; the teachers weren’t. They stared awestruck, as the chin tilted upwards. Oli’s radio stuttered again, a strange cry of effort or triumph; the head fell backwards so it was staring at the sky and out of the neckhole emerged a wild-eyed Father O’Hanrahan.

  His cassock was in shreds. His face was a horrible mask of blotched red and terrified white. As if this wasn’t enough – as everyone stared, not sure whether to think about crocodiles, secret tunnels or strange-looking priests – there came the unmistakable sound of a loud, sharp gunshot. In the still of the winter air it seemed to ricochet left to right; it was caught in the hills and bounced from sky to lake, gradually disappearing into another, more horrible silence.

  Finally, from the south tower – home of Lady Vyner and her grandson Caspar – came the most awful scream.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘An intruder,’ gasped the headmaster. ‘Children – stay here!’

  He jumped to his feet and slipped straight onto his face. Skates were torn off and everyone was running.

  The sun was low, so there were lights on in the south tower. There was a crash of glass or crockery, and another scream. Asilah was the fastest, closely followed by Tomaz and Imagio. They raced up the winding staircase and reached the top landing in time to see Crippen – the elderly servant – stagger out of the door. His face was a mask of horror and he was breathless. He leaned against the wall, gasping – there was yet another scream from inside and then it softened into a desolate wail.

  The children dashed inside, piling through the Vyner rooms. Turning into the lounge, they came upon a terrible sight. Lady Vyner was on her back. The sofa she’d been sitting on had been upended and her right hand clutched either a neck or shoulder wound. Her face was grey and her lips translucent – she was squawking and flapping weakly, in an old white nightgown, like a broken-winged bird. The orphans gasped as one: the upper half of her nightie was drenched in blood. She tried to sit up and there was an awful sucking sound; there was a puddle of blood underneath her and it was spreading rapidly.

  The next moment Routon was there. ‘Scissors!’ he shouted and he knelt down close. Somehow scissors were found. Whatever he was saying to the old lady was inaudible – just the murmurs of comfort one tries to offer.

  Lady Vyner seemed delirious. ‘Get off me!’ she cried, flailing at the man, but Routon’s powerful hands were too strong for her. He was snipping at her clothes, gently pulling the fabric back, probing with careful, professional fingers, even as he caught a stinging slap across his cheek.

  ‘I want everyone outside!’ said the headmaster, panting and wheezing. He came in close and his hand sprang to his mouth; he seemed about to faint. Nobody else moved. Lady Vyner’s pale shoulder was coming into view and it was soaking red. You didn’t need any training to recognise – at once – the black mark of a bullet-hole.

  ‘Ambulance and police,’ said Professor Worthington – and raced from the room.

  ‘The intruder could still be at large!’ cried the head master. ‘Back to your room, boys! Asilah!’

  Routon had ripped the sleeve from his shirt and was attempting to stop the exit wound.

  ‘Fool!’ cried Lady Vyner. ‘Fool!’

  ‘I need sheets from the bed,’ Routon said to Millie and she sped off in search of them.

  ‘Where’s Caspar?’ said Israel. ‘What if they shot Caspar too?’

  Sanjay and Podma raced up the hall to check bedrooms.

  But little Caspar Vyner was sitting under a table, not two metres from his grandmother’s body. He still held the gun, as though it was welded to his fingers – he could not shake it loose. His sobs had run out and he’d pushed himself back as far as he could go into the darkness. He was making small noises and rocking backwards and forwards. ‘Bubb . . .’ he said. It was a little bleep of a sound, like a sick machine.

  The headmaster and Doonan were at the child’s side, immediately. As they lifted him, he made the same noise three more times. When his gran came into view, he went rigid with fear and then he was in spasm.

  The men steered him from the room as the word ‘M . . . m . . . murderer!’ was hurled at his head in a long, terrible scream.

  ‘Hush!’ said Routon.

  ‘Don’t you hush me, you ogre!’

  Routon had bound pads of sheet to both sides of the wound. He tightened the bands that held them, making the old woman wince with pain.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ said Sanchez.

  Routon tightened the bandages a little more and sat her up. ‘It’s a flesh wound,’ said the captain. ‘Nothing broken. No vital damage.’

  ‘But the blood,’ said Millie. ‘Look at it.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about blood.’ He dragged one of Lady Vyner’s arms over his own shoulder. She gasped with pain. ‘She’s alright. The more they scream, the more life they’ve got. It’s the quiet ones you worry about. Hold this pad in place, Millie. I’m going to get her up.’

  ‘Should we move her? Shouldn’t we wait?’

  ‘She’s a trooper – you can walk down a few stairs, can’t you, love? See if you can find her slippers.’

  ‘Caspar,’ said Doonan, softly. ‘I need you to put the gun down.’ He stroked the boy’s hair with one hand, so gently. With the other he kneaded the child’s wrist. ‘We’re going to put the gun down, Caspar, aren’t we? And we’re going to go downstairs and everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Ba!’ said Caspar. ‘Mmah!’

  ‘We’re going to stretch out our fingers. We’re going to get this nasty thing down on the table. What a great heavy weight it is! Let’s see if we can get our fingers out of the hole . . .’

  ‘I din . . . I din!’

  Doonan spread his own fingers and held them in front of the terrified Caspar. ‘Can you just do that for me? Let’s touch fingers, come on, Caspar!’

  Caspar blinked and licked his lips. Gazing into Doonan’s eyes, he finally opened his fingers and the gun slipped onto the kitchen table. The headmaster removed it. The boy then watched as his gran limped from the flat; he was shaking, and her threats and abuse echoed all the way up the stairwell.

  After some time, Doonan managed to soothe him into a chair and Flavio made a pot of tea. The children were finally sent away and there was calm.

  The story came tumbling out. It was short and it was sad.

  The gun belonged to Sanchez: everyone knew that. But how had it found its way to Caspar? According to Caspar, another boy had loaned it to him. Caspar admitted he’d been hunting for the weapon all over Christmas, so it was a joyful moment when this kind, generous, friendly boy knocked on his front door and put the weapon in his hands. The boy had even given him advice, which Caspar had listened to, carefully: the gun is not loaded, said the boy. It’s a harmless toy, so you can point it at anyone. They’d even tried out a few combat manoeuvres together, on the landing.

  ‘What do you mean, manoeuvres?’ said Doonan, gently. Caspar was on his lap now, slowly recovering.

  ‘Cowboy,’ said Caspar. ‘We did cowboys.’

  ‘Did you really? That’s very good – and he showed you how to hold it, did he? Did you try any others? Talk me through it, take your time.’

  ‘Then we did cops, because he said cops were more fun. He said it was more fun, because cops have to . . . have to burst in and shoot. So he showed me how to . . . burst in and shoot.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘This morning. And we were playing. We were pulling the trigger and it was an empty gun! I shot him and he shot me. But I said cops was more fun, so he said fine and he w
ent away. And I had lunch. And then . . .’

  ‘Go on, Caspar.’

  ‘Gran was having a nap. I was only to have the gun for the day so I was just stroking it. I waited for her to wake up. I was just going to show it to her! She likes weapons, same as I do. She was on the sofa . . .’ The boy started to cry. ‘I pretended to be a cop. I had it all ready, like Miles had shown me. I just . . . pointed it at her.’ He stared into Doonan’s eyes, a new wave of horror rising as he relived the moment. ‘I just pulled the trigger.’

  Caspar dissolved into sobs again and it took another ten minutes to quieten him. When he was able to go on, there wasn’t much more to the tale.

  ‘He said I could have it till teatime. He said Sanchez knew and everyone wanted to be friends with me. I was really happy, because he’d taken a curse out. He’d said he wanted Gran dead, but now he said the curse was over . . .’

  Inspector Cuthbertson did not attend the crime scene. He was alerted, immediately, and sent a handful of trusted men. He asked for a full report, subject to a government H.O. He tried to contact Father O’Hanrahan, but the man wasn’t contactable.

  Blue lights winked for several hours as darkness fell and statements were taken. Caspar was taken to a police station and Doonan stayed with him.

  The headmaster now sat in his study, with his head in his hands. He had sent for Miles.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ‘This might be the most important conversation you’re ever going to have,’ said the headmaster. ‘So I would advise you to think carefully about everything you say.’

  ‘If you think it’s my fault,’ said Miles. ‘Why don’t you just send me to the police station?’

  ‘Because you’re a child.’

  Professor Worthington served tea and then withdrew.

  The headmaster looked at the boy in front of him and hunted for an opening. After a long minute of silence, he said, ‘When you came into my study, on your first day back at Ribblestrop, you told me that you had changed.’