THE SMALL HALL OF THE OLD CHAPEL WAS warmly lit and plain, with a varnished wooden floor and a low stage at one end; it had spent a couple of years as Howlfair Youth Theatre and was still occasionally used for performances. Standing at one of several trestle tables, arranging neat piles of Mayor de Ville merchandise – posters, badges, bags of sweets, tee-shirts – was Molly’s form tutor, the mayor’s wife, wearing dungarees and a boating hat. Mrs de Ville spun around, startled, as Molly tripped, wheezing across the threshold of the chapel with Gabriel dangling ungracefully from her arms.
“Mrs de Ville! Help!”
She was halfway across the hall before she remembered that she hadn’t shut the door to bar her furry pursuer. She skidded to a halt as Doris de Ville drew a huge breath, her eyes immense with anger, opened her mouth wide, and shouted at a hair-raising volume:
“GET OUT!”
Molly gripped Gabriel and garbled apologies as Mrs de Ville’s dainty feet brought her closer – and then Molly realized that the teacher wasn’t looking at her; she was looking past her.
Molly turned to see the dog slavering outside the chapel, swaying and baying. It seemed incapable of passing the boundary of the doorway.
Doris de Ville pushed in front of Molly, getting between the girl and the dog. “What is that wolf doing here?”
Molly didn’t have time to answer, for the owner of the beast had now appeared in the doorway.
Though Molly knew his name and fame, and had seen his photo on posters, she had never seen him in the flesh. She was amazed at the dimensions of his weighty, drooping moustache, which terminated in two spikes just below his jawline. He did not remove his left hand from his coat. With his right hand – Molly noticed that it was white and puffy as though it had been soaked in bleach – he took hold of his dog’s chain.
“Good evening, Doris,” the philanthropist intoned deeply. “I see you’ve caught the earnest young lady who just attacked my dog with a dustbin.”
“Mr Furlock,” said Doris de Ville, “I see you’ve come to collect the wolf who was trying to eat one of my pupils.”
“Hecate is harmless,” Furlock said, patting the dog’s head. “Your pupil attracted the poor creature’s attention by snooping around my orphanage like a … well, like a spy.” Furlock narrowed his eyes and looked at Molly as a general might look at a map of enemy territory. “Ah, I recognize you now, girl! Your mother runs the Excelsior Guesthouse, yes? Terrible news about poor Mrs Fullsway.”
Molly said nothing. Something about Furlock made her feel that it was wise to keep silent. She hugged Gabriel harder.
“A secretive child,” Furlock chuckled. “David Thompson’s daughter, yes? He was a jolly fellow, if I remember. A cockney. Very fond of the smugglers’ pubs on Lastmead Lane. How curious that his daughter turned out so sombre!”
Molly gasped with outrage.
Furlock’s eyes left Molly. He looked at the tables, his gaze grazing the piles of posters and badges and sweets and pens and other merchandise relating to the mayoral elections. “Well, I didn’t mean to invade your campaign headquarters while you’re so hard at work, Doris,” he said. “I hope I won’t have any cause to visit again. The mayor is a lucky man to have such a loyal helper.” He glanced at Molly. “Or should I say helpers?”
Molly’s form tutor frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
But now Benton Furlock had turned and was walking briskly with his guard dog into the decomposing evening gloom, leaving Molly with the extremely irate teacher.
“I’m almost lost for words,” Mrs de Ville said, shaking her head. “It’s one thing to be out sneaking around orphanages, but it’s another thing to lead Benton Furlock and his dog to my campaign headquarters!”
“Mrs de Ville, I didn’t know that I—”
Doris de Ville held up a hand. “You are aware that my husband is running against that man in the mayoral elections, aren’t you, Thompson? You do know that Benton Furlock is after my husband’s job? And now he thinks I’ve been sending a famously nosy twelve-year-old girl to spy on him!”
“But I wasn’t spying! I was just, um—”
“Spare me your excuses, Molly. Does your mother know that you and your cat are walking the streets at sundown?”
Molly squirmed. “She knows that I like to, um, investigate things and research local buildings, miss. And I swear I was just on my way home after looking at the artwork on the orphanage when Mr Furlock’s dog attacked me. I didn’t even know that Mr Furlock had anything to do with the orphanage.”
“Benton Furlock is involved in everything, Molly.” Mrs de Ville sighed, taking off her hat and rubbing her temple. “He runs the orphanage; he runs Loonchance Manor and the ghoul tour; he owns a wing of the museum; he’s looking at buying Spittlebrim School and restoring it.”
Mrs de Ville turned to the trestle table and pulled a tee-shirt from the pile. She threw it to Molly. Molly tried to catch it, but succeeded only in dropping Gabriel, on whom the tee-shirt settled like an opened parachute. Molly removed it from him. It was grey with white lettering. On the front it said:
“Stop snooping around investigating mysteries and getting into trouble, Molly,” said Mrs de Ville. “Do something useful instead, like helping me clean up our streets. You never know – a bit of outdoor work with my litter-picking crew might even put a smile on that stern little face.”
Molly turned the tee-shirt over in her hands. On the back, in smaller type, was written:
“Your dad loved this town,” Mrs de Ville added. “He’d want you to look after it.”
Molly looked up. “Did you know him?”
“Of course – very fond of the smugglers’ pubs on Lastmead Lane.” Doris smirked. “But Mr Furlock forgot to mention why your dad liked to visit the smugglers’ pubs on Lastmead Lane. Do you know?”
“A club,” said Molly. “A book club…”
Doris nodded. “Your dad loved to read, and he couldn’t bear to think that so many people hadn’t learned to enjoy a good book. So he decided to start a book club for people who’d never read a book in their lives. One day he asked some grizzly old-timers if they wanted to join his book club, and they laughed and said that they’d rather spend their free time in the pub. And I’m sure you know what happened next.”
“Yes,” said Molly quietly. “But go on.”
“Your dad had an idea. He decided he’d hold the book club meetings in the rough pubs on Lastmead Lane. Everyone thought he was mad – me included.” She frowned at the ceiling. “What was it he used to order at the bar?”
“Limeade with a slice of orange.”
“That’s it. He’d sit there with his pint of limeade and orange and a pile of books, and little by little, as the weeks went by, he drew people into his reading group. I’ll never forget the day when I saw twenty tattooed labourers pour out of the Last Drop Inn with your father, all of them clutching copies of Wuthering Heights. Or when a girl at school told me that her parents had started reading her bedtime stories at night – all because of your father.”
“Mum used to read lots too,” mumbled Molly. “She and dad used to have these big debates about books. But she doesn’t read any more.”
“Well, right now I imagine she’s wondering where her daughter is,” said Doris. “What do you think?”
Molly shrugged. She decided not to mention that she had sneaked out of her best friend’s house.
“It’s time you got home, Molly. Remember, we meet at two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. The dance square.” Doris de Ville cracked her knuckles. “Let’s make Howlfair nice again.”
Outside, the evening had turned deep denim blue. Benton Furlock and his dog were nowhere to be seen, but Molly decided to take the best-lit route back to Little Valley Drive, where Lowry was anxiously waiting for her.
With torn clothing and with a frazzle-furred cat walking beside her, she headed down South Circuit Street, where she spotted Mr Cromble for the second time that day. He was up in the window of one of the Circuit’s lovely tall townhouses, frowning into the evening. Mr Cromble and Molly’s father had been friends, and the sight of the kind-faced man in the window comforted Molly. But there was something about Mr Cromble’s worried frown that troubled her. She watched as he rubbed a tuft of hair and heaved a sigh. Then he turned away from the window and walked out of Molly’s view, and she did not see him again.
Stanley Cromble went into his white-tiled, spot-lit kitchen and picked up the instructions for his new king-sized deep-fat fryer. A smiley builder from humble roots who’d made a modest fortune renovating houses across the Ethelhael Valley, Stanley Cromble hadn’t lost his taste for life’s simple pleasures, and this evening he planned to comfort himself with a chip butty made with thick white bread, salted butter and brown sauce, washed down with a pint of milk.
A nice big sandwich and a tall glass of milk might help him sleep tonight. He’d been finding it difficult to drop off lately.
He put down the instructions pamphlet, poured a litre or two of oil into the monstrous machine, pressed the ON button, then turned to slice the potatoes.
The fat bubbled as the pile of chipped potatoes grew. The day beyond the kitchen window dimmed as evening settled on Howlfair. And then Mr Cromble jumped as his intercom buzzed.
He froze, gripping the knife.
The intercom buzzed again.
Pull yourself together, he told himself, setting down the knife. The deadline isn’t till next week – and in two days’ time you’ll have left Howlfair for good.
He crossed the kitchen and pressed the button.
“Hello?”
A crackle. Then a woman’s voice: “Stanley?”
Stan frowned. It was a voice he hadn’t heard for a long time. He opened his mouth; but before he could speak, the intercom crackled and the visitor said, “It’s Lesley.” A pause. “Lesley – your sister.”
The fat fryer continued to bubble.
“Stan, can you hear me?”
Now this was an unexpected turn of events.
Stan wiped his hands on his trousers. “Of course – sorry, Lesley – it’s, um… It’s been a long time. I’ll buzz you in.”
He pressed the button to unlock the door and stood wringing his hands. What on earth was his sister doing in Howlfair?
He heard footsteps in the corridor outside his apartment and hurried to the front door.
Stanley hadn’t heard from his sister since she’d moved abroad almost a decade ago.
As he opened the door, the fat fryer issued a sudden sizzle, like a warning.
Lesley was leaning against the corridor wall opposite Stan’s doorway, side-lit by the round wall-set light, half in shadow, wearing a mysterious smile. She looked exactly as she had looked when Stan last saw her. The birdlike frame, the too-big overcoat. The wild hair, looking like she’d put her head out of the window of a speeding train.
“Nice little place you have here,” she smirked. “Going to invite me in?”
“Of course!” blustered Stan, stepping back. Lesley squeezed past him. No kiss, no hug. Typical Lesley. She strolled across the lounge and plonked herself on the black leather sofa.
“Um – do you want a cup of tea?” Stan said, heading back through the archway to the kitchen. The fat fryer was bubbling urgently now. Suddenly Stan remembered that Lesley hated tea. She always had. “Sorry, I forgot. You—”
“Yes, please,” called Lesley, plucking a magazine from the coffee table.
Stan stopped. He looked over his shoulder. In the long mirror at the far end of the lounge, he could see the reflection of Lesley’s profile, and it seemed to him that her left eye was…
Well, sort of glowing.
Fighting to control his heartbeat, Stan took a breath and said, “D’you still take your tea the same way, Les? Milk and six sugars?”
Lesley never had sugar in anything. Especially not tea.
“Please,” sang Lesley. “Then I’ll tell you why I’m here.”
Stan’s knees buckled. He had a horrible feeling that the person in his living room was not his sister.
Sizzle, warned the fat fryer.
Slowly, shakily, Stan made his way towards the pile of chips. He took the knife from the chopping board. He hoped it was silver. If it was silver, he might be able to—
“You know I’m not Lesley, don’t you, Stanley?”
Stan jumped and dropped the knife. He spun around. The visitor was in the kitchen archway, grinning. Her left eye seemed to bulge. It shone bright blue. Stan staggered backwards, past the surface on which the fat fryer hissed.
“Lesley probably doesn’t take sugar in her tea, does she?” the visitor went on.
Stan shook his head. His legs, meanwhile, were shaking of their own accord. “She hates tea,” he rasped, terror constricting his windpipe. “You’re one of Mr Furlock’s … things, aren’t you?”
The figure in the archway laughed. Then it began changing. The clothes started turning white. Golden jewellery – necklaces, bracelets, brooches – began to appear over the torso. The thing’s face was stretching, turning pale, turning rotten. The bottom jaw receded, then suddenly hinged open revoltingly. A dozen or so teeth fell out of the gaping mouth, clattering on the floor; the upper teeth elongated into fangs.
“I’m going to pay, I swear!” Stan backed away, his throat making a whining noise as the thing rose a couple of inches into the air and began to float over the floor tiles. “Can’t you come back in a few more days?”
“I am permitted only to do as my Master commands, Stanley – unless my Mistress tells me otherwise.”
“Mr Furlock’s letter said I had until the Blue Moon Elections to make the next payment!”
“The Master has checked your finances,” the thing said in a gargled spoof of his sister’s voice. “You haven’t enough money to make your next payment. The Master thinks you might be planning to leave town before the blue moon.” The ghoul paused by the oven. Its blue eye was dazzlingly bright. “So the Master has decided it’s time for your second warning.”
“Thompson!” Lowry hissed. “Thank goodness. I heard an ambulance siren and thought you’d come a cropper. Yikes, you look like you’ve had a fight with a really ruthless gang of twigs.”
Lowry let Molly in through her window.
“I’m fine, thanks to Gabriel.” Molly clambered into the bedroom, her cat following. “I heard the siren too.”
“Tell me what you learned. Who’s our mystery man?”
“Wait for it,” said Molly, settling on the bed and rubbing her scratched arms. “It’s Benton Furlock.”
Lowry put her hands to her mouth. “No way! Mr Make Howlfair Scary Again? Your hero?”
“Yeah – Mr Making-Howlfair-so-scary-that-people-die-of-heart-attacks.”
“Molly, what exactly did you find out?”
“I found out that he’s happy to let giant dogs eat twelve-year-old girls.”
“Um … OK, let’s back up a bit…”
“And now he thinks I’m a spy working for Mrs de Ville.” Molly unfolded the tee-shirt and tossed it onto the bed.
“Slow down, Molly! Tell me what happened!”
“So tomorrow morning we’re going to start investigating Benton Furlock, and we’re going to find Carl and make him tell us everything.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
“I won’t need luck,” said Molly. “I’m going to make Carl Grobman more scared of me than he is of Benton Furlock.”
Lowry sighed. “Well, you’re looking pretty scary right now, I have to admit. Now take a breath, start at the beginning and tell me everything that happened tonight.”