Alfie Bloom and the Secrets of Hexbridge Castle (2 page)

 

A loud
boom
wrenched Alfie from dreams of ravens and misty forests. He sat up with a jolt, then relaxed as he realized it had come from his dad's workshop. He was probably working on something involving chemicals again. Alfie grimaced; the flat still smelt like burnt cabbage from the last time. His dad had invented dozens of almost useful devices – a water-powered hairdryer, a toilet-roll holder that sounded a deafening alarm when running low and, most recently, a voice-activated front door that only seemed to understand Irish accents. None of these had made any money, so when Alfie's mum died two years ago, his dad had taken on a series of part-time jobs to make ends meet. The little spare time he had was divided between Alfie and his inventions. Alfie didn't care that they didn't have much money – he didn't even mind the dank basement flat too much. He just missed the way things used to be when his mum was alive.

Sitting up, he blinked groggily against the sun shining through his window. For a minute he wondered why he was wearing his school clothes, but then he remembered flopping on to his bed in exhaustion after racing home. He must have slept right through the evening and night. His dad had been working late again. Just as well. Alfie hadn't wanted to talk about his last day at school. He knew his dad had enough worries without hearing that Alfie had been getting into fights and was nearly hit by a car.

Changing into scuffed jeans and a faded T-shirt, Alfie wondered what to do with the first day of the summer holidays. The long, lonely weeks seemed to stretch out in front of him like a prison sentence. He wished his dad didn't have to work so hard. He wished Amy wasn't going on holiday. He wished his life wasn't so … so
dull
. Searching through his drawer for a pair of socks without holes in them, he wondered if he was the only kid in the world who hated school holidays.

A scratching noise broke through his brief moment of self-pity, alerting him to the arrival of a pale ginger tabby: Galileo. The cat nudged the door wide open and padded into the room purring. Alfie reached down to scratch behind his ears and noticed the cat was carrying something in his mouth. An envelope. Galileo dropped it on the threadbare rug then flopped down next to a pair of shoes and began lazily chewing the laces.

“Weirdo,” Alfie laughed. “Are you training to be a dog?”

He picked up the expensive-looking envelope. On the front, in beautifully neat handwriting, were the words:

For the attention of Alfred Bloom

He made a face. Only people like his headmaster, the landlady or angry old Mr Filbert upstairs assumed his name should be lengthened to Alfred. On the back was a large wax seal with two ravens perched on a pair of scales. He thought it a shame to break it, but within seconds it was lying in pieces and he was holding an official-looking letter. Alfie took a deep sniff of the thick cream paper – it smelt like old books. It was embossed with a gold crest that matched the seal and read:

Muninn and Bone Solicitors (Established 1086)

Dear Master Bloom,

An appointment has been arranged for you with one of our senior partners on Saturday 23rd July at 11.59 p.m. to discuss the transference of your substantial inheritance.

We are legally required to also request the presence of your father, Mr William Horatio Bloom.

Our carriage will call for you at 11.26 p.m. prompt.

Sincerely,

Emily Fortune

Senior Administrator

Substantial inheritance? Had someone left him something in a will? Alfie read the card again, his head spinning. It was the twenty-third today. He raced to his dad's workshop with the strange invitation.

“You're absolutely sure it isn't someone from school playing a joke on you?” said his dad as he read through the letter at the rickety kitchen table, scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully.

“Yes, I'm sure, Dad, for the fifth time!” Alfie mumbled through a mouthful of tuna, sprout and pickled-egg sandwich. Breakfast was often a creative mix of whatever was left in the cupboards. “I don't know anyone who could forge something that well.”

Alfie's dad was a tall man with dark hair that tended to stick out all over the place. Alfie thought it was most probably because he spent so much time scratching his head. He was wearing his favourite cardigan – the green one with lots of pockets that his mum had knitted. Alfie noticed it was a lot baggier on him than it used to be. He risked another sandwich as he waited impatiently for his dad to finish analysing the letter. This one contained crisps, beetroot and gherkins. At long last his dad got up.

“Cup of tea, son?” He rummaged around in the murky green cupboards above the sink for teabags and clean cups. Mrs Craddock the landlady hadn't decorated the flat for about forty years. They had moved here a few years ago to save money to build their own house, but since Alfie's mum died their savings had dwindled away. His dad didn't talk about building a house anymore. Alfie understood why – even if they could afford it he didn't want to live in Mum's dream house without her either.

“Well, Alfie,” he said as he poured the tea. “I've never heard of this Muninn and Bone, but I have to admit, the letter does look genuine.”

“What do you think they mean by
substantial inheritance
?” asked Alfie. No one they knew had died – not recently – and they didn't know anyone even remotely rich.

“I guess there's only one way to find out.” His dad smiled and passed him one of the steaming cups.

 

At quarter past eleven, Alfie and his dad were already sitting on the wall outside their basement flat in Abernathy Terrace. It was a warm summer night and the scent of jasmine from the garden next door filled the air. The sweet smell began to give Alfie a headache as he sat uncomfortably straight, trying not to crease his clothes. They had spent the afternoon scouring charity shops for smart clothes. Alfie was quite pleased with his dark grey suit, but had to fasten his belt very tightly to stop the trousers dropping down around his ankles. He had managed to talk his dad out of buying a tartan blazer and into getting something quite smart and sensible, although the effect was rather spoilt by slightly short trousers, which showed his odd socks.

The minute hand on his watch drew nearer to eleven twenty-six. Alfie looked up and down the street anxiously. He began to feel silly. Maybe the letter really was a joke. What kind of solicitor would want to meet at midnight? Just as he was about to suggest they go back inside, there was a clatter of hooves on the street. He nearly toppled back over the wall in shock when he saw what was standing there.

Smack bang in front of him stood the grandest coach imaginable – bigger and better than all those in the Tower of London put together. The varnished ebony wood was so highly polished that it could have been mistaken for glass. Even the ornately framed windows were black. A shiny silver cap bearing the same crest as the invitation sat at the centre of each wheel. He looked up to see a man in a top hat and travelling cape sitting high at the front. The man held the reins to six huge black horses, which snorted and stamped the ground impatiently. Alfie couldn't believe he hadn't heard their approach before the sudden clatter.

The driver tipped his hat. “Johannes.” He was a giant of a man with neat grey-flecked sideburns that framed his good-humoured face, and he introduced himself in a gravelly voice with a hint of a German accent before nodding towards the coach door. It opened and two steps slid out of the frame. “Please take your seats, sirs.” Alfie felt a shiver of excitement as they climbed inside the coach and settled into the luxurious purple velvet seats.

“Fasten your seat belts.” Alfie jumped as the driver's voice boomed through a brass funnel on the wall in front of them. “The boiled sweets provided will ease any discomfort you feel in your ears during the journey.”

Alfie gingerly helped himself to a sweet from a silver dish fixed to the wall as his dad admired the plush interior of the carriage. “I've never been in anything this fancy in my entire life,” he whispered as though half afraid the driver was listening to them. “Whatever they want to speak to you about must be very important.”

The steps folded back into a small compartment with a quiet whirring noise, and the door closed making barely a sound. With a tiny jerk, they were on their way.

Alfie could hear the horses snorting and the coachman half singing, half shouting to them as they galloped.

“Dad,” said Alfie. “We must be going very fast. You don't think we'll crash do you?”

“I'm sure the driver knows what he's doing,” said his dad, although he didn't look entirely convinced.

The coach began to travel faster and faster until Alfie was sitting right back in his seat, hands gripping the silver handles on the walls as he glanced worriedly at his dad. There was a sudden jolt and everything tilted backwards. Alfie felt as though an invisible hippopotamus was sitting on him. The feeling lasted for about a minute before the pressure eased, the carriage stopped juddering and he could move freely again.

“Whoa! That was weird,” he exclaimed, swallowing to pop his ears while gathering up the sweets that had slid into his lap.

“It gets stranger,” said his dad, sitting up and leaning his head towards the window. “Listen carefully. Tell me what you hear.”

Alfie strained to hear anything. “Nothing. Just a whistling noise.”

“Exactly. Why can't we hear the horses galloping any more?” Alfie stared at his dad. Surely they couldn't be … flying?

Alfie pushed his face to the window, cupping his hands around his eyes like binoculars. It was dark outside and the thick, tinted glass made everything even darker. He could just about make out flashes of colour and light. He spent much of the journey grinning at his dad who beamed back at him as though too full of anticipation to even talk. Alfie felt as though they were on a marvellous adventure together, and he wrapped his arms around his stomach to try to trap the warm feeling it gave him inside.

After about twenty minutes, the whole coach jarred with a loud thud. Alfie grabbed his seat again as they were bounced up and down. The whistling had stopped and he could hear the sharp sound of horses' hooves slowing to a trot as the coach rolled to a halt.

The door opened with a
pop,
and Alfie nearly fell out face first. His dad caught his arm as he half jumped, half toppled to the cobbles below. They were in an old coach house the size of a warehouse with vast oak doors that were now closed.

Steam rose from the horses as the driver placed a barrel of water in front of each one. He spoke to them gently in a horsey language full of neighs, nickers and snorts. In the dim light cast by the flickering torches on the walls, Alfie could see coaches of all shapes and sizes. He ran over to an enormous one that looked like a golden barge from Ancient Egypt, but with wheels.

“Look at this, Dad!” he shouted as he discovered a green-and-gold coach half his height and peered through the tiny windows.
Surely no one could fit into something so small.

“It must be a toy.” His dad squatted down for a closer look. “Look at these tiny symbols around the sides.” He adjusted his glasses and leant forwards for a closer look.

“Ahem!” A huge hand landed on each of their shoulders and Alfie looked up to see Johannes towering over them. “This way, sirs. Mr Bone is waiting.”

He led them to a gigantic door made up of lots of other doors of decreasing size, one inside the other, like Russian nesting dolls. The smallest only came halfway up Alfie's knee. “Just through there. Ms Fortune will sign you in.”

“Which door do we open?”

The coachman chuckled as he filled a nosebag for each horse. “Whichever one fits, Master Bloom, whichever one fits.”

Alfie stared in awe as he swung the human-sized door open to reveal a magnificent round room. The floor was made of marble with the now familiar Muninn and Bone crest set into a disc of polished brass in the centre. The walls were covered in dark wooden panels and the stone arched ceiling was so high that he felt as if he was in a cathedral. At least twenty suits of armour in all shapes and sizes lined the panelled walls.

“Mister and Master Bloom?” said a bright little voice from behind them. “How do you do?”

Alfie span around in surprise. They had walked straight past a young woman behind the huge desk near the entrance. Her long dark hair flowed out behind her as she skipped over to shake hands.

“I'm sorry, we didn't see you!” he stammered.

“Not a problem, not a problem at all. Everyone reacts like that when they first come here.” She span on the spot with her arms outstretched. “Such a grand old hall and such a little old me.”

Alfie liked this tiny woman with her sing-song voice, huge green eyes and pointy face. “You're not old,” he said, unable to keep from blushing.