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A family tree

Tancred got to his feet. Had he known it was Charlie’s Uncle Paton standing there in the dark, he wouldn’t have taken fright. He brushed the knees of his jeans, feeling rather foolish. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said.

‘On the contrary, Tancred,’ Paton said in a low voice, ‘it is I who must apologise. My wretched affliction compels me to walk in the shadows. I’m afraid I’ve already distressed at least three other people tonight.’

‘There’s a man with a sword . . . a sword that . . .’ Tancred hesitated, unsure how to describe the scene that had so unnerved him.

‘I know, I saw him too,’ said Paton, ‘and the knight.’

‘I didn’t know where to go, what to –’

‘Come with me.’ Paton took Tancred’s arm and hurried him away from Frog Street. ‘I was on my way to the bookshop. We can discuss things there. Hurry! And tread softly if you can.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They walked together down the High Street, their footsteps light and brisk. Every so often Paton would stop and hold Tancred still so that he could listen for any following sounds. But there were none. And yet something accompanied them. A hoarse whisper seemed to echo down the street, a faint groan came from a shifting manhole cover, and there was a soft whine in the air above them, either from overhead cables or TV aerials. And then there was the smell, strong and salty, that clung to their hair and faces.

‘The father of the boy who tried to drown you is here,’ murmured Paton.

‘I know. I can taste him,’ Tancred said.

They reached a row of ancient half-timbered buildings standing in the shadow of the great cathedral. Ingledew’s Bookshop was one of a dozen small, rather exclusive shops on a paved walk that ran beside the cathedral square. There was a lamp post standing immediately outside the window, but the lamp at the top was unlit. The council had given up replacing the bulb as it exploded so frequently. The councillors were all aware of Paton Yewbeam’s unfortunate talent, and guessed that he was responsible for the power surges. But none of them could bring themselves to mention it, for fear of being ridiculed. They pretended to believe that the constant shattering of glass was caused by hooligans.

Soft candlelight illuminated the bookshop window, where large, leather-bound books lay on folded velvet. Paton rang the bell and a tall woman appeared so quickly behind the glass in the door it seemed likely that she had been waiting for him. She withdrew the bolts, unlocked the door and opened it, saying, ‘Paton, come in.’

There was tenderness in the woman’s voice, and the sort of intimacy that made Tancred feel a little uncomfortable. And then she saw him and uttered a little gasp of surprise.

‘Julia, it’s Tancred,’ Paton reassured her. ‘I thought it best to bring him here.’

‘Sorry, Miss Ingledew,’ Tancred mumbled. ‘Hope I’m not intruding.’

‘Of course not.’ She gave him a warm smile and walked down the three steps into her shop.

Tancred followed her while Paton locked and bolted the door again. Miss Ingledew led the way round the shop counter, where three candles in bronze saucers burned with a sudden brightness as the visitors stirred the air.

Behind the counter, a thick velvet curtain hid Miss Ingledew’s cosy sitting room. Here, a log fire burned in the grate, and shelves of books lined the walls right up to the ceiling. Tancred was surprised to see Miss Ingledew’s niece, Emma, kneeling before the fire. She had her back to him, while she brushed her pale gold hair over her head. Tancred gave a polite cough and said, ‘Em?’

The girl tossed back her long hair and stared at Tancred, her cheeks reddening.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’ve . . . erm . . . got a cold, or a sore throat that might soon be a cold. So I didn’t go back to school.’

‘Me neither.’ Tancred grinned.

‘Well, you can’t go back, can you?’ Emma wrapped a hank of hair around her hand. ‘I mean you can’t ever, now they think you’re dead.’

Paton and Miss Ingledew had disappeared through the door into the kitchen, and the clink of crockery could be heard above the low murmur of their voices.

Tancred eased himself on to the sofa behind Emma. ‘I suppose I could turn up and give everyone a fright,’ he said.

‘Not a good idea.’ Emma came to sit beside him, and he noticed that her hair was still damp. It was very fine, silky hair and he had a sudden urge to touch it. This thought made him blush for some reason, and he stared into the flames, not quite knowing how to continue the conversation.

Miss Ingledew saved him the trouble by carrying a tray of tea into the room. She set it down on her desk, every other available surface having been taken over by books and candlesticks.

‘I’ve told Julia about the things you saw tonight.’ Paton handed Tancred a mug of tea.

‘Thanks, Mr Yewbeam!’ Tancred clutched the warm mug. ‘But you saw them too,’ he added anxiously. ‘You know I didn’t imagine it.’

‘What did you see?’ Emma demanded as she reached for her tea. ‘What’s been going on?’ She turned to Tancred. ‘And, come to that, why are you here, in the middle of the night?’

Tancred explained that he had come to warn the Onimouses that Norton Cross, their doorman, could no longer be trusted. He went on to describe the extraordinary events that had followed: the foreign swordsman who seemed to have stepped from the past, the sword that fought on its own and the mounted knight in his scarlet cloak. ‘If the knight hadn’t turned up, I’d have been done for,’ Tancred finished dramatically.

Emma’s grey eyes widened. ‘Oh, Tancred!’

Tancred glanced at her anxious face and smiled. ‘Funny thing is, I recognised the swordsman. I’m sure I’ve seen him in the school – in a painting, that is.’

‘You have.’ Paton lowered himself into an armchair by the fire. ‘I saw him once, and have never forgotten it. He is one of Mrs Tilpin’s forbears. I imagine it was she who brought the man into our world.’

‘With the help of a mirror that does not belong to her, no doubt,’ Miss Ingledew remarked crisply.

‘Charlie’s mirror?’ said Emma.

‘Indeed.’ Paton’s dark eyes glinted. ‘The Mirror of Amoret.’

‘But who is this mysterious swordsman?’ begged Emma.

‘Ashkelan Kapaldi,’ Paton told her. ‘A swordsman of renown, and a magician of sorts. Though, as far as I can tell, it was only his sword that he could bend to his will, and set to killing, all on its own. He was active during the English civil war. How do I know this?’ He waved a hand at a bookcase in the corner. It contained ancient, dusty books bound in peeling leather, their yellowed leaves covered in mysterious, faded writing. Tancred had taken a look at one of them, and understood hardly a word.

‘He seemed to recognise me,’ Tancred said thoughtfully, ‘that swordsman. I felt that he knew I was endowed.’

‘It’s something we have in common,’ Paton remarked. ‘I can often recognise one of the Red King’s descendants. Most of us have a way of knowing each other. Isn’t it the same for you, Tancred?’

Tancred wasn’t sure. He certainly wouldn’t have known that pretty Miss Chrystal, the former music teacher, was, in fact, a witch of the very darkest nature. He slowly shook his head. ‘I didn’t know Mrs Tilpin.’

‘No,’ Paton agreed. ‘She was a tricky one.’

Emma slipped off the sofa and knelt in front of the fire again, flicking out strands of her damp hair. ‘Why has it all got so ominous?’ She looked at Paton, as though he must hold the answer.

Paton was in no hurry to reply. He sipped his tea and then stared into his mug, apparently having forgotten Emma’s question. He hadn’t forgotten, however. ‘Convergence,’ he said at last. ‘Two things have occurred in these last few months. Charlie’s father has reappeared and Titania Tilpin has become the witch she was destined to be. I believe she is the conduit – the channel, if you like – between the present and the distant past; the world of her ancestor, Count Harken of Badlock. And it is Titania who is drawing Harken’s minions back into our city. Some of them are present-day villains, descendants of Harken, others are, for now, mere shadows; whispers, rustlings, echoes. But if Titania and Harken have their way, these shadowy phantoms will soon take on form and substance and then our lives, if we manage to hold on to them, will be changed forever.’

Paton’s dreadful prophecy shocked everyone into a long silence. Eventually Emma, scrambling on to the sofa again, said shakily, ‘Billy Raven is there, in Harken’s world, so Charlie says.’

‘I’m sure it’s true,’ Paton said. ‘And I’m equally sure that Charlie will try to rescue him.’

‘And what about Charlie’s father?’ asked Tancred.

‘Ah, Lyell.’ Paton’s frown lifted and he actually managed to smile. ‘My recent travels have borne fruit. It’s quite incredible what you can turn up these days.’

Tancred and Emma stared at Paton, uncomprehending.

On the other side of the fireplace, Miss Ingledew pulled herself from the depths of a battered armchair, and gave a light, ringing laugh. ‘Paton,’ she cried, ‘they haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

Paton cleared his throat. ‘I’ll explain,’ he said. And he told them of his search for a certain pearl-inlaid box that Billy Raven’s father, Rufus, had entrusted to Lyell Bone. Soon after this, Rufus and his wife were both dead, victims of a supposed traffic accident, and Lyell began ten long years of spellbound forgetfulness, a trance-like state brought about by Manfred Bloor’s dreadful hypnotic power.

Paton’s deep voice shook with emotion when he spoke of Lyell and Rufus, but his tone became firmer when he described his growing suspicion that Billy Raven was closely connected to these vile crimes. Why, for instance, did Ezekiel Bloor keep the orphan Billy almost a prisoner in the school? And then allow him to be dragged into the past by the enchanter of Badlock?

‘I don’t have an answer either,’ said Paton, looking at the bemused expressions around him.

‘So how d’you know about the box?’ Tancred ventured.

‘Ah, the box. I was coming to that.’ Paton stood up and began to pace the room. ‘My suspicions led me to search for any of Billy’s remaining relatives. I discovered the aunt who cared for him after his parents’ deaths, but she would tell me nothing. It was only by chance that she mentioned a certain Timothy Raven, Billy’s great-uncle. I could see that she instantly regretted it, and she wouldn’t tell me where he lived. I had to discover that for myself. I now know that she was on Ezekiel’s payroll. She didn’t even tell me that her own mother was still alive. It was Timothy who told me that. I found him in Aberdeen. He was ailing when I met him and has since died, but he was able to give me an old address of Billy’s great-grandmother. And I found her.’

Paton’s audience waited breathlessly for his next revelation. He smiled at them with satisfaction and announced, ‘Her name is Sally Raven and she lives in a care home on the north-east coast. It seems she had become estranged from her daughter and knew nothing of Billy’s fate after his parents had died. But she told me about the box, Maybelle’s box she called it, with its beautiful pattern of inlaid mother-of-pearl. It was given to her by her husband’s aunt Evangeline, and Sally gave it to her grandson, Rufus, on his wedding day.’

Emma uttered a quiet, ‘Ah!’ She had been thinking of weddings lately. She looked at her aunt, who smiled.

‘The key was lost,’ Paton continued, rather hurriedly. ‘And there was no way of opening the box. It was just a very beautiful object, Sally said. But in her heart she knew it contained something special because there were others, on the Bloor side of the family, who desperately wanted it.’

‘The Bloors?’ said Tancred and Emma.

‘Just so,’ replied Paton. He turned to Miss Ingledew. ‘Shall we show them?’

‘I think we had better.’ Miss Ingledew went to her desk and unlocked a small drawer at the top. She withdrew a folded piece of paper and carried it over to Tancred. ‘Open it out,’ she said. ‘I call it the Raven Tree.’

Tancred unfolded the paper on his knees, where Emma could see it.

‘A family tree!’ Emma exclaimed.

‘Sally Raven is an extraordinary woman,’ Paton told them. ‘She has a case full of photos, letters and cards from her family and her husband’s. She was able to help me draw up a family tree that goes right back to Septimus Bloor, old Ezekiel’s great-grandfather.’

‘So Billy is related to Ezekiel?’ said Tancred with a frown.

‘Distantly,’ Paton agreed. ‘Billy is descended from Maybelle, who married a Raven. Ezekiel is descended from Maybelle’s brother, Bertram, who inherited Septimus’s fabulous wealth. But Sally believes that Septimus left his fortune to Maybelle and her heirs. And his original and true will is hidden in that beautiful box. The box she gave to Rufus. The box she believes Rufus entrusted to his dearest friend. And he was Lyell Bone.’

Tancred gave a low whistle. ‘What a tangle.’ He was about to hand back the family tree when Emma restrained him. She was scrutinising the paper intently.

‘There’s a line that goes nowhere,’ she said, pointing to a name on the far left side of the tree. ‘N-I-A-something, and then Ita, and then Eamon.’

‘Irish,’ said Paton. ‘I intend to follow it up, but it may be impossible. Sally told me that her husband had a half-sister who lived in Ireland with her grandparents. Her mother died when she was born. But we’re only interested in the line that ends with Billy. If Sally is right then Billy Raven is the heir to Septimus Bloor’s fortune.’

Tancred rolled his eyes. ‘No wonder they want to get rid of him. Does Charlie know about this, Mr Yewbeam?’

Paton nodded. ‘I managed to fill him in before he left for school on Monday.’

The telephone on Miss Ingledew’s desk suddenly gave a sharp ring, and everyone jumped. Miss Ingledew picked up the receiver. The voice at the other end could be heard quite clearly and Tancred leapt off the sofa, crying, ‘It’s Dad. Oh no, I forgot to ring him.’

Miss Ingledew had to hold the receiver well away from her ear as Mr Torsson’s voice thundered into the room, sending pens and papers flying off her desk. Paton took the receiver from her and shouted, ‘Torsson!’ into the phone. ‘Tancred’s here, as you no doubt suspected. He’s quite safe, but he’d better spend the night in the bookshop. There’s a lot going on. We’ll talk about it later.’

Mr Torsson’s reply was loud but reasonable. He’d managed to get his thunder under control. Tancred took over from Paton and told his father he would be home in the morning. He replaced the receiver with a sigh of exhaustion.

‘It’s all right to stay the night, is it?’ he asked Miss Ingledew, darting a look at Emma.

‘We’ll make up a bed on the sofa,’ Miss Ingledew said with a smile.

Paton decided it was time for him to leave. He wished everyone a good night and reminded Miss Ingledew to lock and bolt the door as soon as he had left. He waited outside the shop while she did this, and then she waved at him through the glass in the door, and he set off.

When he left Cathedral Square, he heard a low muttering of voices that grew louder as he approached the turn to Piminy Street. A group of people were coming up the road towards him. They were an odd bunch, with their heavy topcoats, their furs and their leathers and strangely dated hats. One of them wore a string vest. Paton retreated a few steps and slid into the shadows behind a narrow porch. He watched as they all turned into Piminy Street. There must have been at least a dozen of them. When they had passed the first few houses, Paton felt confident enough to step quietly into the street, but one of the group turned suddenly and stared at him, her eyes glinting in the dark; she was very small, her face ancient in the lamplight, her hair a deep red. Paton averted his eyes and hurried on.

Not for the first time he wished that Julia Ingledew didn’t live so close to Piminy Street. ‘On the doorstep of another world,’ he said to himself as he walked briskly through the city, avoiding lamp posts where he could. The salty tang on his lips reminded him that Lord Grimwald was in the city once again. At Ezekiel’s invitation, no doubt. And Paton thought of Lyell Bone, out on the wild ocean.

As Paton strode down Filbert Street, a black car rolled past him and stopped outside number nine. Grizelda Bone got out of the car and climbed the steps to the door.

‘I’ll wager she’s up to her neck in all this skulduggery,’ Paton said to himself.

Gabriel’s secret

Gabriel Silk had a secret. He wanted to tell Charlie about it, but there was never an opportunity. They were in different dormitories now, and different classes. The canteen was too public, and out in the grounds they were never alone. There might, however, be a chance when Charlie was on his way to a music lesson.

Gabriel had been waiting in the corridor of portraits, hoping to waylay Charlie as he crossed the hall. He had intended to stand just inside the corridor, but found himself wandering further down, studying the portraits on the wall. He passed them every day but had never really studied them. The subjects were mostly stern-looking men and women, though occasionally you could find a smiling person. If you knew your history well enough, you could tell by their clothes what century they had lived in. Gabriel had been told that every one of them was descended from the Red King. There was even a Silvio Silk, in a black velvet suit and a white curled wig. He might have been Gabriel’s ancestor, but he bore no resemblance to him.

If Gabriel wore someone else’s clothes, he immediately knew what sort of person had worn them before. He could sometimes picture them, see what they had done and even hear their voices. But portraits could tell him nothing. ‘If I was Charlie, I could go right in and talk to you,’ Gabriel whispered to Silvio Silk. ‘And you could talk to me.’

Silvio Silk didn’t bat an eyelid. He wore the same resigned expression that he had worn when the artist painted him, two hundred years before.

Gabriel wandered further down the corridor. He passed men in sober black suits, in rich red jackets and glittering gold waistcoats; he passed women whose necks were hung with diamonds and pearls, whose hair was garlanded with flowers, and whose shoulders were draped in velvet and fur. And then he stopped before a full-length portrait of a cavalier. Gabriel’s eye was drawn to the sword at the man’s side. It had a delicately wrought golden hilt, and the man’s gloved fingers rested on it almost lovingly. As Gabriel stared at the intricate gold curves they glinted suddenly, as though the sun had caught them. And then Gabriel found his gaze lifting to the face above the wide lace collar. The man had shoulder-length black hair, and between the black moustache and pointed beard, the fleshy lips had an unpleasant grin.

Gabriel stepped back to get a better view, and now he noticed that the eyes seemed wrong. There was no light in them. It was as if the man’s spirit had left the painted face.

A cold shudder ran down Gabriel’s spine. It was dark in the passage. There were no lights, no sunlit windows. Had he imagined the sudden bright glint on the gold sword-hilt? Was the lack of light in the man’s eyes or merely Gabriel’s own shadow? No. There was something different about this painting. The name on the bronze plaque at the base of the frame read Ashkelan Kapaldi. The plaque had come loose, it hung at an angle and there were fingerprints on the shiny surface of the paint. Someone had touched the portrait very recently; pressed and prodded it repeatedly.

‘Gabriel Silk, what are you doing?’ Manfred’s voice came ringing down the corridor of portraits.

Gabriel turned guiltily, although, as far as he knew, he had nothing to feel guilty about. He must make sure that Manfred didn’t guess what was on his mind. The Talents Master had been using hypnotism a great deal recently.

‘What are you doing here?’ Manfred came up to Gabriel and stared at him.

‘Nothing, sir.’ Gabriel looked away from the narrow black eyes. Beneath his black cape, Manfred was wearing a bright green waistcoat. Surprising for one who was usually so soberly dressed.

‘Nothing?’ The Talents Master glared at Gabriel, forcing him to look up. ‘Nothing?’

Gabriel felt dizzy. ‘Going to a music lesson, sir,’ he said faintly.

‘Go then! And stop hanging about!’

Gabriel was about to turn away when he saw two figures coming down the corridor behind Manfred. One of them was limping, the other lurching. Gabriel’s eyes widened in surprise, for the limping man bore a strong resemblance to the man in the portrait: Ashkelan Kapaldi.

The surprise in Gabriel’s eyes caused Manfred to whirl round. ‘Go!’ he shouted at Gabriel. ‘This instant!’

Gabriel walked away quickly, but not so quickly that he didn’t hear the Talents Master say, ‘It’s not wise, sir, for you to leave the west wing during the day. Pupils will recognise you . . . and wonder.’

‘Let them wonder.’ The stranger’s voice had a foreign lilt. ‘Let them be amazed . . .’

‘It’s not the time, Ashkelan.’ This second voice had a cavernous, echoing sound. Something in the ebb and flow of it reminded Gabriel of Dagbert Endless. He hastened into the hall, which was full of children on their way to different classrooms. Occasionally someone would whisper to a companion, while glancing anxiously about in case a prefect was watching. Silence in the hall was the rule.

Gabriel spotted Charlie’s wild mop of hair. He wore a slight frown and his thoughts were obviously miles away. Gabriel waved, trying to get Charlie’s attention, but Charlie didn’t see him. And then Dagbert Endless walked between them. He followed Charlie doggedly across the hall and into the passage that led to Señor Alvaro’s music room. Gabriel pursued them.

Safely out of the hall, Gabriel called, ‘Charlie!’

Dagbert swung round and snapped, ‘What do you want?’

Gabriel was momentarily taken aback by Dagbert’s sharp tone. ‘I want to speak to Charlie,’ he said.

‘Hi, Gabe!’ Charlie had noticed Gabriel at last. ‘What is it?’

Gabriel saw that Dagbert wasn’t going to leave them. ‘It’s nothing,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

Charlie watched Gabriel slouch away, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets. Obviously he didn’t want Dagbert to hear what he had to tell Charlie.

‘Why d’you keep following me?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Shouldn’t you be in a lesson?’

Dagbert shrugged. ‘I’ve lost my flute. I thought Señor Alvaro might have it.’

‘Why? Mr Paltry teaches flute.’ Charlie walked faster, trying to shake Dagbert off.

Dagbert caught up with him. ‘OK. The truth is . . . my father’s here.’

‘I know,’ said Charlie irritably. ‘We’ve been through that. What d’you want me to do about it?’

‘I want you to keep my sea-gold creatures for a while.’

‘What?’ Charlie stopped dead in his tracks. He could hardly believe his ears. ‘Are you seriously asking me to keep something that you almost k–’ he quickly corrected himself, ‘something that you drowned Tancred for taking?’

‘I’ve told you,’ Dagbert said desperately. ‘I didn’t mean to drown him. It was an accident.’ He dug into his pocket and brought out a handful of tiny charms: five golden crabs, a fish and a miniature sea urchin. ‘Please, keep them safe for me.’ He held the charms out to Charlie. ‘My father’s looking for them.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t explain right now.’ Dagbert pushed the charms at Charlie.

Charlie stepped back. ‘Why me?’

‘You’re the only person I can trust.’

Charlie found this hard to believe. ‘What about your friends: Joshua, Dorcas, the twins? What about Manfred?’

Dagbert shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, no.’ He grabbed Charlie’s wrist and attempted to press the charms into his hand. ‘Please!’

‘No.’ Charlie snatched his hand away and the sea-gold creatures spilled on to the floor. The sea urchin rolled towards Señor Alvaro’s door which, at that very instant, began to open.

Señor Alvaro stood in the doorway regarding the sea urchin at his feet. He gave it a small kick.

‘No!’ Dagbert pounced on the charm as it rolled across the floor. ‘You could have broken it.’ He hastily gathered up the five crabs and the golden fish as well and shoved them into his pocket.

‘What’s going on?’ Señor Alvaro frowned at the wall behind the boys. It was now a rippling bluish-green; silvery bubbles rose from a shell that floated just behind Charlie’s ear, and fronds of seaweed waved gently from the skirting board.

Charlie glanced at the scowling Dagbert. ‘It’s what happens, sir,’ he told the music teacher. ‘He can’t help it.’

‘Can’t help it?’ Señor Alvaro raised a neat black eyebrow. He was young for a teacher and his clothes were always interesting and colourful. He had permanently smiling brown eyes, a sharp nose and shiny black hair. He didn’t appear to be too surprised by the watery shapes on the wall.

As Dagbert shuffled away, the weeds and shells and bubbles gradually faded, and the wall took on its usual greyish colour.

‘Come in, Charlie,’ said Señor Alvaro.

Charlie always enjoyed his music lessons now. He knew he wasn’t talented but Señor Alvaro had convinced him that music could be fun, as long as you blew with conviction and hit the right notes, more or less. Charlie had even managed half an hour’s practice the previous evening, and Señor Alvaro was pleasantly surprised.

‘Excellente, Charlie!’ The music teacher’s Spanish accent was soft and compelling. ‘I am astounded by your improvement. A little more practice and that piece will be perfect.’

The lesson was at an end but Charlie was reluctant to leave. Señor Alvaro was one of the few teachers at Bloor’s whom Charlie felt he could trust. He had an overwhelming urge to confide in him.

‘Do you understand about Dagbert?’ he asked as he put his trumpet in its case.

‘I know about the boy’s father, if that’s what you mean, Charlie. I’m aware of the curse placed upon the Grimwald dynasty and I know that Dagbert believes the charms his mother made can protect him.’ Señor Alvaro’s tone was very matter-of-fact. Charlie was surprised he knew so much.

‘Do you know about . . . about . . . my talent?’ Charlie was unsure of putting this question and found himself stuttering.

‘Of course!’ Señor Alvaro gave one of his heartwarming smiles. ‘I’ll see you on Friday, Charlie. Usual time.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Charlie left the room.

When he closed Señor Alvaro’s door he felt slightly dizzy. Perhaps it was the darkness of the passage, coming so soon after the bright lights in the music room. He closed his eyes for a moment and a rushing, foggy grey seeped behind his lids; it was the sea, and in the churning grey waves there was a small boat bobbing among the foam. Charlie saw this boat in his mind’s eye whenever he thought of his parents, somewhere on the ocean, watching whales. But today he could just make out a name on the side of the boat: Greywing.

Charlie opened his eyes. Why had the name come to him so suddenly? Did anyone else know about it? His grandmother Maisie? Uncle Paton? The company that arranged his parents’ whale-watching holiday?

‘Charlie!’

Gabriel came running down the passage just as the bell went for lunch. ‘Can we talk outside, Charlie, after lunch?’

‘Why not now?’ asked Charlie.

‘I can’t explain. It’s too complicated,’ said Gabriel.

‘Give us a clue!’

‘It’s about the Red Knight.’

‘Now I’m really interested.’ Charlie hurried into the hall where the usual crowd of children were rushing to their cloakrooms: blue for music students, purple for the actors and green for the artists. Gabriel hovered beside Charlie while he washed his hands and then they walked together across the hall and down the corridor of portraits towards the blue canteen. As they passed Ashkelan Kapaldi, Gabriel nodded at the portrait and whispered, ‘I saw him today.’

‘I think I saw him last night,’ Charlie whispered back.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’

Charlie shrugged.

Fidelio had kept two places for them at a corner table. While they ate their macaroni cheese, Charlie bent close to his friend and, as quietly as he could, described the swordsman both he and Gabriel had seen outside his portrait.

‘I wouldn’t be in your shoes,’ Fidelio remarked with a grin.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Gabriel asked in an offended tone. ‘This man isn’t after me and Charlie particularly.’

‘Sorry.’ Fidelio often forgot how touchy Gabriel Silk could be. ‘But you’re both endowed, Gabe. These weirdos are always after you lot; by and large they leave normal people like me alone.’

Gabriel had to admit that this was true. He realised that he would have to take Fidelio into his confidence as well as Charlie. Best friends always stuck together during break.

After lunch the three boys jogged round the grounds. It was one of those dreary March days when the sky is a dark grey slab and the cold air sneaks into your very bones. Sixth-formers were allowed to stay indoors, but the rest of the school, almost three hundred children from eight years old to sixteen, were trying various ways to keep warm.

Some of the boys were playing a rather half-hearted game of football, others were being violently active in an athletic kind of way, and yet more were doing formal exercises, presided over by an enthusiastic outdoor type called Simon Hawke.