“WHOSE CAR IS THAT?” LOWRY SAID AS they turned the corner from sun-flooded Squint-Eye Lane to Cecily Craven Street, where the Excelsior stood.
A boat-like sports car, grey, bulbous around the wheel hubs and bonnet, was moored on the kerb outside the guesthouse. It wasn’t the kind of car that would ever come back into fashion (if indeed it had ever been in fashion); it had the doomed air of an extinct bird in a taxidermist’s window. Molly had an awful idea that she knew who it belonged to.
She crept to the side of the lounge window and peeked through.
The first thing she saw was the bull-horn moustache. Then a stiff-suited man, one arm in his jacket, sitting opposite Molly’s mother on one of the high-backed armchairs that had small coffee tables beside them. Lowry, following, poked Molly in the ribs. “Who is it?”
“It’s Benton Furlock – and he’s talking to my mum! Probably telling her how he caught me running from the orphanage!”
“Oh, bums.”
“Stay outside,” said Molly, heading for the front door. “Or go home.”
“What? Why would you want me to go home?”
“Furlock’s got me in his sights,” hissed Molly, dropping her front key and fumbling to pick it up. “I don’t want him to get you in his sights too.”
“But, Molly…”
“Lowry, trust me. I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on.”
Furlock flew to his feet as Molly tripped into the lounge of the Excelsior, which smelled a bit too strongly of lilies and of the contradictory colognes of guests. Curiously, no other residents were present; usually they would be reading newspapers on the sofas at this hour, or gossiping over tea. With one hand stuffed inside his long, vaguely military coat, Furlock looked as though he was about to reach for a pistol. Surprised by his sudden rise, Molly put her hands in the air. She nearly shouted, “Don’t shoot!”
“Molly, what are you doing?” said Mum, who had been looking quite relaxed considering the importance of her visitor, blowing on her cup of steaming tea, to cool it.
“Just … stretching,” said Molly, embarrassed. She put her hands down. “Um, Mr Furlock…”
The moustachioed philanthropist bowed and sat down. “Molly,” he cooed, “our young local historian. Your mother has been telling me all about you.”
“Ah,” said Molly cautiously.
“Molly, why don’t you go upstairs?” said Mum. “Mr Furlock and I are just discussing … local matters.”
“Oh, it’s fine if Molly stays,” Furlock said in his tar-thick tone. He gulped a gulletful of scalding tea and returned the cup to his table. “I just wanted to offer my condolences. I know that Hectoria Fullsway was very close to your family. Isn’t that right, Molly?”
Molly cleared her throat. “She stayed here sometimes.”
“Your mother says that you and she were good friends. It’s comforting to know that Hectoria had someone she could confide in.”
“Confide?” Molly spluttered. What was he getting at?
“She talked to you.”
“Yeah, ’course,” said Molly, fidgeting. She realized she was sounding defensive, cagey, but she couldn’t help herself. “She talked to me about her novels,” she added, shrugging too energetically. “That’s all.”
Benton Furlock took another gulp of steaming tea. “She did have quite a remarkable imagination. With people like Hectoria, you often have to take what they say with a pinch of salt.”
“Tell me about it!” snorted Mum. “Molly’s the same. Always harping on about vampires and ghosts and mysteries.”
“Mum,” Molly hissed.
“And her best friend Lowry thinks she’s a werewolf…”
“Mum, stop!” Molly cried.
Suddenly Benton Furlock gasped. “Oh, what a fool,” he hissed, and Molly saw that he’d spilled hot tea over his knees.
Mrs Thompson flew to her feet. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it!” She grabbed a vase, threw the lilies onto the floor, and moved towards Furlock to extinguish his steaming knees with the water.
Furlock showed no sign of pain. “Mrs Thompson, that’s not necessary. A towel will suffice.”
“Molly, get a towel!” said Mum. “On second thoughts, stay here and don’t touch anything!”
She flittered from the room, and now Molly and Furlock were alone. Molly spotted Gabriel blinking on the windowsill outside and wondered if he was signalling to her in Morse code.
“Why didn’t you tell my mum?” Molly asked Furlock at last. “About your dog chasing me, and all that?”
He did not speak for several seconds.
“I have plans for this town,” he said finally. He stared at his damp knees. “Howlfair has a destiny. But for Howlfair to fulfil its destiny, it must have me as its mayor. So whatever it is that Mrs de Ville is making you do…”
“She’s not making me do anything!”
“Whatever it is, it will not work.” Still he stared at his knees. His voice vibrated with fury. “I repeat: Howlfair must have me as its mayor. The day – no, the moment I become mayor of this town, everything will change. Everything! Howlfair will become scary again. I have sworn to transform this town. I will never give up, and I will not let anything get in my way.”
Molly felt a rush of anger. She remembered the look of fear on Hectoria’s face. She thought of her dad’s face, too, in those horrible final weeks when everything seemed to terrify him and nobody – not Molly, not Mum, not Gran – knew how to help. “Was Mrs Fullsway getting in your way?” she said. “How about my dad? Was he getting in your way?”
Furlock’s head snapped upright and his face flushed an awful pale blue. He ground his teeth briefly before speaking. “I can see why the people of this town despise you, Molly Thompson.”
Molly reeled as though slapped. “Pardon me?”
“Such a serious child – and yet you aren’t taking me seriously,” Furlock said, leaning towards Molly, teeth bared. “I will remedy that.”
Molly didn’t have time to reply, for now Mum was scurrying back with the towel. But Furlock had unfolded himself like a construction crane and was brushing himself down with his free hand.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t quicker, Mr Furlock,” Mum fussed, holding out the towel. “Can I get you another cup of tea?”
“Not necessary, thank you.” He took the towel, dabbed his knees perfunctorily, and handed the towel back to Molly’s mother. “I must be off, Mrs Thompson.”
He looked down his moustache at Molly. Then, very briefly, he waved his small right hand near her face, the fingers fluttering, swiftly tracing a complex pattern. For a second, Molly thought she saw stars. Then she heard Furlock mutter a few guttural words.
Immediately Molly felt as though the energy had been siphoned from her body. Furlock closed his fist and for a moment Molly had the alarming sensation that part of her personality was now in his palm. She looked desperately towards her mother – but Mum was heading to the door to show Furlock out.
He followed, turning to give Molly one last threatening glare before he left.
“Molly, what got into you?” Mum snapped after she’d shut the door. “Shouting at me like that in front of Mr Furlock!”
“I didn’t want that man knowing anything about Lowry,” Molly croaked, her stomach still churning. She stumbled to the door at the far end of the lounge, heading for the back staircase, suddenly desperate to rest. “He’s a horrible, horrible man.”
Her limbs felt fantastically heavy and weak, and her head was buzzing as though a fly had found its way into her skull.
“That man does a huge amount of good work in our community, I’ll have you know,” Mum called after her. “He’s probably going to be our next mayor.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“What’s that? What did you say?”
“I said I’m going to lie down,” Molly wheezed, and she lumbered down the corridor, wondering what kind of hex Benton Furlock had just put on her.