Chapter 10

The Letter And The Buried Man

Oz’s mood did not improve much later that afternoon when he walked into the kitchen at Penwurt to find Rowena Hilditch yet again sitting at the table with his mother. It seemed she was becoming a permanent fixture. The paint charts had been pushed to one side to make room for a strange collection of glass tubes, each one full of a vivid liquid. Oz assumed this was yet another variation on the never-ending quest for the ideal mood-enhancing wall colour. Or, as Ruff would aptly put it, another load of buzzard guano, his recently discovered word for a type of manure that came from birds. Remembering it triggered the beginnings of a smile that died long before it ever got to Oz’s lips, because thinking of Ruff sent another jolt of frustrated confusion coursing through him. He was tempted to just turn and run up to his room rather than face Rowena Hilditch again. Alas, his unannounced entrance had not gone unnoticed, though it had caught his mother off-guard. She smiled a greeting and stood quickly to give him a hug, but there’d been a moment’s hesitation in which he’d caught a look of stark weariness etched on her face.

“Everything okay, Mum? You look a bit tired,” he asked, glancing at the calendar over her shoulder and feeling a little surge of relief on noting it was as he’d seen it that morning, with no part of a black dog showing.

“The latest news from the roofers is that they can’t come for another month at least. Don’t know why they even took on the job if they knew they couldn’t start it. We’ll just have to hope it doesn’t rain too much for the next few weeks.” She sighed. “So I can’t sleep because of that, and when I do, I keep dreaming about being sent to prison because I’ve chosen the wrong colour for the guest rooms.” She sounded thoroughly fed up.

“Does it really matter what colour a wall is?” Oz asked in exasperation.

There were several seconds of loaded silence, and Oz thought he saw his mother cringe slightly.

“But of course it does,” Rowena Hilditch said from across the table, in a shocked, breathy voice. “As I have explained already, colours have deep spiritual meaning. So much so that I have offered to help Gwen with her sleep problems.” She smiled and sat up. “I am, after all, a qualified rainbow practitioner.”

The guano alarm went off in Oz’s head, but he tried desperately not to let anything show on his face. If it did, Rowena Hilditch didn’t seem to notice. He looked at the coloured tubes and asked, “Is Mum supposed to drink all that?”

Rowena Hilditch threw her head back and let out a throaty laugh. “How ridiculous. That would just be silly. All that’s necessary is that, when Gwen sleeps, she arranges the colours in a specific order around her pillow so as to ensure that her brain receives the appropriate amount of electromagnetic wave therapy.”

“Right,” Oz said, casting a wary glance at his mother, who was smiling wanly.

“I’m willing to give it a go,” she said, trying her best, Oz thought, to sound convinced.

“Does it work then, this rainbow therapy?” he asked, looking pointedly at Rowena Hilditch.

“Of course it works,” she said, as if Oz had asked if water was wet. “Recalibration of one’s energising meridians is something we should all do on a regular basis.”

“But if you can’t sleep, Mum, wouldn’t it be better if you saw Dr Tarpin?”

Rowena Hilditch shook her head and smiled sadly. “Doctors have their place, but when someone’s chakras are misaligned—”

Oz frowned. That sounded serious. A bit like a dislocated hip.

Mrs Chambers let out a hollow sort of giggle, which ended in a frozen smile.

Rowena Hilditch sent Mrs Chambers an admonishing glance. “There is no doubt about it. Your energy centres are way out of sync, Gwen. Just look at you.”

Mrs Chambers shrugged, but her eyes were on Oz, seeking his approval. “Won’t do any harm to try, will it?” she asked, and gave another unconvincing giggle.

Common sense was telling him that going to sleep surrounded by a load of coloured tubes couldn’t possibly do any harm, just as it couldn’t possibly do any good. Oz also sensed Rowena Hilditch was peering at him, her eyes full of challenge. But he didn’t rise to the bait. He had no appetite for another discussion this afternoon, not after what had happened in school today.

“Got another science test,” he muttered. “Mind if I go up and start some revision, Mum?”

“Go ahead, Oz,” Mrs Chambers said, her face softening.

Oz dumped his bag in his bedroom but didn’t linger. He’d wanted a glass of milk but couldn’t stand the thought of spending another minute with Rowena Hilditch.

Instead, he grabbed a torch, took the stairs up to the library, and opened the passage behind the eastern wall by pressing the alchemical symbols for essence, alum, soap, and tin in the oak panel. He headed for the one place he could think of where neither Rowena Hilditch nor anyone else could disturb him. At that moment, Oz just didn’t want company. All he wanted was time to think.

Moments later, he stepped down into the tiny, dim space in the room of reflection. He sat on the floor with his back against one wall and his legs drawn up beneath him. The place smelled old and dusty, but there was no hint of mushrooms, unlike in Room 62 at school. He stared at his cramped surroundings in the thin green light from the window, wondering how many other people over hundreds of years had done the same, hiding or simply finding somewhere quiet to just think.

The trouble was, all he could think about was Ellie and Ruff and that the chance of the three of them being together on the school trip was lessening by the day. Why was Ruff being such a complete gonk about all this? He was normally up for everything. Ellie, too, was taking his side, or at least warning Oz not to make a big thing out of it. But it was a big thing, wasn’t it?

He shifted his feet in the cramped space and heard something clank. Oz looked down and saw a shape jammed into the corner. In the beam of his torch, he picked out some crumpled papers, a curved piece of wood, and an odd angular shape. He reached down and picked up a heavy ornament of some kind. He brushed off the dust and held it up. It was about twenty inches high and had a lion’s head above a long sturdy bar that ended in a pair of moulded lion’s-paw shapes.

Two-thirds of the way down the bar’s length, another plain bar, at a right angle, led back a good fourteen inches to a rectangular footplate. Oz set it down; it was sturdy and well-balanced. He pressed the pebble, and when Soph appeared an instant later, asked her what it was.

“It is a firedog, Oz. It is one of a pair that would have been used to support logs in an open fireplace.”

“What’s it doing here?”

“That I cannot answer,” she said, “but from the markings upon it, I would say it had been used extensively.”

Oz studied the heavy piece. The lion had its mouth open in a silent roar, and the feet were slightly rusty. Bits of charcoal and grey ash coated the rectangular bar. He looked about him at the tiny room. There was no sign of a fireplace, so what such a thing might be doing here was anyone’s guess. Yet another one of Penwurt’s many bewildering mysteries, he mused. He placed the firedog back into the corner and turned to the crumpled paper, smoothing it out on the floor. Nothing but scribbles and the word “secretary” written out thirty times. The wooden item was curved, with two splintered ends. A red band ran around the inside.

“What do you reckon, Soph? The rim of a tennis racquet?”

“I would suggest it is more likely to be a child’s hoop. It was a common game to roll a hoop along the streets, using a stick to propel it.”

“Sounds like a bundle of laughs,” Oz observed. “And the paper looks like someone has been forced to write out a badly spelled word.”

“I agree.”

“This is just random stuff. I bet some kids from the orphanage must have found their way up here at some stage.”

He let out a huge sigh and let his eyes drift over the wooden panelling and the strange and wonderful way they’d been decorated. Now that he could look at them properly, he gazed at them with mounting admiration for their workmanship. It took him ages to complete any artwork of his own, because he could never stop fiddling with the details and was always being hurried along by Mr Holland in art lessons. He let the torch beam play over the intricate details of the plants and birds, the weird-looking engines and machines—if indeed that was what they were.

One panel in particular caught his eye. Roughly two feet by two, it seemed lighter in colour than all the rest, and the intricate designs looked a little fresher. It didn’t seem quite square either, and his eye was drawn to a small, dark gap between the panel and the wooden beam above it.

Oz pushed himself forward for a closer look. There was a gap. It was as if the wood had shrunk away from the beam, and when he ran his finger over it, he felt something snap. It was the faintest of sensations, as if there was something loose within the crack, like a sliver of wood, or the edge of a piece of paper. He felt a crackle of excitement tingle his scalp and bent to inspect the gap. There was something there, but it was pushed right in. He needed something fine to get at it. Oz sat back and thought. The answer came in an instant.

Quickly, he retraced his steps and, in three minutes, was back on the spiral staircase. Voices drifted up from the kitchen. Good. That meant his mother and Rowena Hilditch were still down there. He tiptoed down to his mum’s bedroom and rummaged for her eyebrow tweezers.

Five minutes later, he was back in the room of reflection, tongue protruding between his lips, eyes inches from the panel. Using the tweezers, he teased up an edge of whatever it was and patiently, skilfully, after several attempts and a bit of cursing, eased out a much-folded, curly-edged, yellowing piece of paper. With trembling fingers, Oz unfolded his prize and shone his torch beam on it.

What was revealed was a handwritten letter. Oz recognised the handwriting immediately as belonging to Edmund Redmayne, owner of Bunthorpe barn, where Soph had made her first appearance. It was a copy of the letter the trio had found in the old clock his father had bought from Garret and Eldred’s. That clock had been engraved with the words Tempus Rerum Imperator, the key to the code Ruff had deciphered to gain entry into the passages.

But the letter in the clock had been torn in half, whereas this one had not. The print itself was slightly smudged and a curious shade of purple, and Oz realised that it must be a copy of the original. He felt his pulse quicken and sat back down against the wall. With the letter quivering in his fingers, Oz read again the half he knew.

“As this letter may be read after my death, it is my will that the truth be told in regard to the burning of Bunthorpe barn in the year 1761. It is my contention that those responsible did set the fire through spitefulness or fear because they were unable to procure those items, which appeared that night under so strange and wonderful a circumstance. Said miscreants, intent on robbery, found nothing to steal, as was my intention. Following the bell-ringers’ fright, I shut and locked the barn, but returned later to feed the animals. There, in one corner, I found four items, which I knew to be not mine, and of such strange appearance to be not of a usual construction nor pertaining to this area of England. The four objects were an obsidian pebble, a carved black dor, a stone ring, and a pendant of oblong design. I immediately spoke to my brother in law, John Shoesmith, the farrier who had been with me three years before when we experienced a similar occurrence, this time with the appearance of a black shell. As on that night, we agreed to a similar course of action and set out to deliver the items to Squire Worthy, who has knowledge of such things. Although the shell had proven to be a dread blight on the Squire’s family, we felt that he might yet find some good use and succour from the appearance of these new four objects. What is certain is that these items should be protected until such time as the Squire, or others chosen by him, understand their purpose. In so doing, the good John and I proposed we form, with others, an obex, so as to hinder those puffers whose dealings and lies have become a blight on our land. It is they who would surely wish to use these four artefacts for their greedy purposes. It is they, I am certain, who were the arsonists that night. Their actions cost me dear, but I am comforted in the knowledge that they were unable to find that which they were seeking. Squire Worthy took the four items for safekeeping and seemed pleased. It was my fervent hope that the dread and tragic consequences of our previous discovery are not repeated. Our duty is to the Squire and his family, and yet—

Oz paused and looked up at the window, his eyes unfocused as he thought about Caleb Jones. Duty was a word that could have all sorts of meanings; Caleb had supposedly sworn to protect the artefacts. He’d once seen that as his duty. But his lack of enthusiasm when Oz announced their intention to go back to Mr Eldred still puzzled him, and he wondered what Caleb would make of their little adventure with Bendle. It was no good thinking about running things past Caleb, though, because he was still miles away in Bulgaria. Heart thudding in his chest, Oz let his eyes fall back to the top of the second page and to the half of the letter he’d never seen before.

—for by then we knew that the Squire’s family had paid dearly for their inquiry into the wonders of the shell. The Squire kept his own counsel, but I am convinced that he blamed the shell for the dreadful illness that had overcome his son Richard. Never had I seen a boy so haunted, so uncontrollable, a danger even to himself. He seemed possessed by a spirit of such ferocity that we, all grown men selected by the Squire for the purpose of restraint, were often sorely tested. We did what we could to contain the feral demon within him, but it saddens me to recount that he was able to escape his confines on more than one occasion with horrific consequences. What it was that drove him to acts of such horror that it was not safe for him to be within sight of another living creature—for to be so meant that creature’s certain death—to this day I cannot say. I swore an oath of secrecy to the Squire but others have paid a high price for that secrecy.

So distraught had the Squire been that he instructed me to ask John Shoesmith to ensure the shell’s destruction mere months after it had been found, and to that end I carried out my duty. It was apparent to me that a curse had descended on this place and the family of Worthy. A curse that ended with the tragic death of young Richard. And yet, when I received the Squire’s instructions not to destroy the pebble, the dor, the ring, and the pendant, as with the shell, but to disperse them for others to find, I did not question it. For it was plain to us that, as the shell had brought the curse, so those other artefacts had removed it in a manner that brought a merciful end to Richard’s suffering. For that small blessing I am eternally grateful.

I, Edmund Redmayne, confirm that I carried out the Squire’s instructions to the letter. May God have mercy on my soul.

ER

Oz’s mind whirled. He knew Squire Worthy had ordered Shoesmith to destroy the shell, a fifth artefact that had appeared before the four that made up Soph’s whole. He also knew the order had not been carried out. Instead, Shoesmith had secretly kept the artefact, because it helped him treat sick animals. It was that same shell that had fallen—or been taken—into Gerber’s hands in 1914, and he had used it for quite different purposes.

A creak in the beams from somewhere in the orphanage made all the hairs on Oz’s neck spring to attention. He held his breath, but no other sound came. Oz read the letter twice more. After each reading, a fresh wave of sick dread washed over him. What monstrous horror had plagued Richard Worthy? What had made it not safe to be in his presence?

He had to remember that all this had taken place two hundred and fifty years before mobile phones and antibiotics and proper hospitals. Was this some sort of bizarre illness they’d had no name for back then? Yet it sounded too weird for just an illness. Also, what did Redmayne mean by saying that others had paid a high price for their secrecy?

He pushed himself up from the wall. This was big stuff. Stuff that he had to tell Ellie and Ruff right aw— Suddenly, all the elation and excitement of his discovery leaked out of him, like Dilpak’s wind-turbine balloon. What was the point? The last time he’d seen Ruff, he’d been hurrying away to his bus with a face like an angry wasp’s, and Ellie was reacting as if she couldn’t care less. Neither of them had seemed anxious to speak to him about anything the whole afternoon, so why should he make all the effort?

Deflated, Oz clambered out of the room of reflection and trudged back through the passages to the library. Just in time, too, because the next minute, he heard his mother calling him down for tea.

Thankfully, Rowena Hilditch had already left, and all that waited for him in the kitchen was a steaming bowl of penne with pesto. On the TV, an early-evening news correspondent outside Number Eleven Downing Street was telling everyone how terrible a state the country was in.

“You can turn that off, Oz,” Mrs Chambers said from next to the sink, where she was rinsing the pasta pan. Oz picked up the remote and was about to press the off button when the image changed to the news anchorwoman. She turned her head slightly in the way commentators did to indicate a new story and said, “Police are continuing to investigate the strange case of a man found buried up to his neck in horse manure near Seabourne in Bourneshire.”

Oz blinked and made a face. He was mildly intrigued now.

“The man, Hugo Bendle, a reclusive antique dealer, was found in his own front garden by neighbours drawn to the spot by the unusual and pungent smell.”

“What?” Oz whispered. He glanced around. Mrs Chambers was busy rinsing the colander. He leaned closer to the TV, trying to block her view and concentrate on what was being said.

“Bendle, whose controversial business practises had been under scrutiny by the fraud office, was too traumatised to explain to police how his attackers managed to break through the elaborate security measures at his property. Hospital sources later said that Mr Bendle, a known victim of compulsive cleanliness disorder, had entered a state of catatonic shock after having been trapped in the manure for several hours.”

The scene cut to a hospital corridor, where a man in a white coat said, “It’s difficult with these CCD cases. Being in contact with warm manure is pretty horrific for someone completely obsessed with germs. He is unable to speak at all at the present time. We probably won’t know the truth of it until he snaps out of it.”

The scene flicked back to the studio and the anchorwoman, whose hair was so stiff it looked like it was made of papiermâché. “A police spokesman said there was no evidence of robbery as a motive and admitted they were baffled. They have appealed for witnesses with any information to come forward.”

Oz flicked off the TV and sat down heavily, blinking rapidly as he tried to decide what to make of it all. On the wall opposite was a painting of a harbour with brightly coloured cottages. His dad had bought it for his mother once on a trip to Pembrokeshire. Oz stared through it whilst he tried to gather the thoughts careering around inside his head.

Bendle!

Suddenly, it was as if his insides had fallen through the floor into the basement while the rest of him was still sitting at the kitchen table. A dreadful thought had just occurred to him. Was it pure coincidence they had seen Bendle just a few days before? Because if it wasn’t…if the two things were somehow linked…

Mrs Chambers appeared at the table with a small bowl of grated Parmesan cheese.

“Penny for them?” she said.

“What?” Oz asked, coming back to himself.

“You look like someone who’s just heard an announcement that all Xboxes are to be collected and buried at sea.”

“Oh, no…just exam stuff, you know.” Oz looked down at his food to avoid her inquisitive gaze and began eating. He knew it was delicious, but suddenly, his appetite had gone AWOL. Every time he put another forkful in his mouth, the thought of Bendle in that mound of manure turned the food to mushy sawdust. Worse, had their incursion into Chivyon House ruined Bendle’s alarm system and let the attackers get in? Finally, after another two failed forkfuls, he pushed his plate away virtually untouched.

“You’re not worried about Rowena, are you?” Mrs Chambers asked with a note of alarm.

“Rowena?” Oz said, once again caught off-guard by his mother’s question.

“Yes, Rowena. She of the rainbow therapy.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No, you shouldn’t. She’s asked me to do some copy editing of her manuscript, and she’s actually a very interesting person and a very good listener.”

“Really?” Oz said, stifling the urge to say that a poisonous snake was probably a very good listener but that didn’t make it any less poisonous.

“I know she’s a bit…flaky, but she may well be paying rent soon as well, don’t forget. And I think it’s good that I’m exploring these other avenues of experience, don’t you?”

“Other avenues of experience” sounded like page one of the Rowena Hilditch book of gobbledygook, but Oz just nodded mildly. He promised to eat his pasta later, using the lame excuse of wanting to finish some revision, and excused himself. He felt his mother’s anxious gaze on his back as he left the room.

But it wasn’t his mother or Rowena Hilditch or even Redmayne’s letter that kept him from concentrating on his science revision that night. It was an image of fastidious, germ-obsessed, round-the-bend Bendle trapped in a pile of horse poo.

Thinking of someone up to their neck in manure was almost funny, but for Bendle it must have been a total nightmare. Okay, so Bendle was, to quote Ruff, a bit “barking,” and, Oz reminded himself, he had tried to entomb Ellie, Ruff, and Oz in splatter bombs. Yet try as he might, Oz couldn’t find anything remotely amusing about the image that Bendle’s sickening plight threw up.

He got Soph to replay the report half a dozen times, and each time left him with the same unanswered question.

Who was so mean as to find someone’s weakness and exploit it in such a horrible way? It wasn’t just humiliating; it was cruel and spiteful. He knew very few people who might be capable of such a thing, but he did know some. He was in school with one of them, though he realised Pheeps couldn’t have done anything like this.

On the other hand, behind Pheeps was her father, Lorenzo Heeps—who had tried to get his grubby hands on the artefacts once—and behind him was the big cheese himself, Jack Gerber. What had happened to Bendle struck Oz as having all the hallmarks of Gerber’s diabolical handiwork.