Shiver (2 page)

The next morning Samuel’s mother prepared to set off in the car to get some provisions in before it started to snow.

“Good idea,” Chris Morton had agreed, when she heard, so the two women left together, determined to make the most of it and have a coffee at the same time.

“Might as well … while we’re down in civilization,” Mrs Morton said.

Isabel, who had spent too many hours working away in her studio the day before, was only too glad of the opportunity to take a break.

Samuel watched them drive away, then wandered next door in search of Fiona. He found Granny Hughes on the stairs, struggling manfully with the Hoover.

“I’ll take that upstairs for you, if you like,” he offered.

“Aw no, I can manage,” she said, grabbing it firmly by the neck. “I’m used to it. You’re a good lad,” she gasped, glancing resentfully in the direction of Charles and Sebastian who were lurking at the foot of the stairs. “You put the others to shame, so ye do.”

Charles glowered sulkily, but Sebastian had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“And don’t be giving me any of yer filthy looks,” she called after them. “I can’t be doing with it.”

Charles sloped off, the shadows of the corridor swallowing him whole.

Granny Hughes shook her head sorrowfully. “I never can mind what’s up wi’ that lad. He’s like his father was before him. A gloomy soul …”

“D’you remember him?” Samuel asked.

She looked at him then for the first time.

“Of course I remember him. It was a sad day when he died. This house has never bin quite the same since, that’s for sure,” and she nodded her head sadly. “Plug this in for me, there’s a good lad,” she added, once she’d wrestled the Hoover onto the upstairs landing. Samuel pushed it into the plug socket and switched on.

Immediately, Granny Hughes began to bump the machine over the painfully thin carpet that covered the bare boards. It was a carpet that had seen better days. There was nothing Granny liked more than a good clean and her facial expression assumed a level of severe satisfaction as she chased the dust about the house, moving it from one room to another.

Samuel left her to her business. He found Fiona up in the drawing room on the wide window seat. He sat down beside her, without saying anything.

“Did you hear the wind last night?” Fiona asked him.

He nodded.

“Funny, because it was so still earlier.”

Samuel noticed that the door to the library, which was situated to the right of the huge stone fireplace, stood open.

“That’s unusual!” he remarked, almost to himself.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s usually locked.”

“Oh, that!” Fiona sounded unconcerned.

The room had always been strictly off-limits. Fiona’s mother, Chris Morton, didn’t like anyone going in there. She seemed to have a thing about it – unsurprisingly, as it was the room where her husband died. For that very reason, it had always intrigued the children, particularly Samuel. The books in it were old and musty and it always seemed to contain an air of secrecy. Fiona was more reluctant to go in there. It reminded her of how sad they had all been when they had first lost their father. She didn’t want to think about that right now.

Samuel had no such qualms and wandered in, then stood looking up at the closely-stacked shelves.

“What are you doing?” she asked anxiously, from outside.

“Just looking, that’s all. Your dad had so many books, didn’t he?” he added, as Fiona came and stood beside him. “Who reads them?”

She shrugged. “Whoever feels like it.” Then she added in a small voice, “No one really.”

“What’s that?” Samuel had wandered over to a far corner of the room and stood looking up at a framed tapestry on the wall. He peered closer. The work was delicate, the stitches very fine and its great age evident by the faded look of the linen, which was distorted and worn smooth in places.

“I think
she
did it,” Fiona said.

“She?”

“Catherine …”

Fiona pointed to the initials embroidered in the corner. CM.

Last year, they had found the diary of Fiona’s ancestor,
Catherine Morton, in the attic, and had uncovered her tragic story.

“It’s funny how you can live with a thing for so long that you take it for granted in the end and hardly notice it.”

The wooden frame was burnished and marked with the passing of the years, “genuinely distressed” as antique dealers would say. Samuel studied the little sampler and felt again the familiar sense of intrigue gripping him. The design contained a tower, with a boy and girl standing beside it, holding hands. It was recognizable as
their
tower, the tower attached to Dunadd House where the boys’ bedrooms were situated, and where Granny Hughes and her husband slept if they were staying over, although Granny preferred not to. She was afraid to sleep there at night.

They both stared at it for a long time.

“I wonder who the two children are supposed to be?” Samuel asked, studying it.

“At your detective work again, are you?”

Charles’s dark tousled head appeared round the door.

“Charles!” Fiona gasped. “You made me jump!”

“Sorry. Anyway, what are you two doing in here?”

“Just looking!” Samuel was quick to reply.

Charles gave him a concentrated look. “I know you two. You don’t give up, do you?”

“What?” Samuel said, trying to look innocent.

“You know … this place might
seem
like a museum to you, but it
is
our home.”

“He knows that, Charles,” Fiona cut in. “Don’t be so rude.”

“I’m not being rude. I’m just reminding our friend here
that this isn’t a theme park.”

“I never thought it was,” Samuel said.

“It’s a strange old house,” Fiona sighed. “Even you have to admit that, Charles.”

“Of course I do.”

“Look at this,” she added, pointing at the tapestry. Charles peered closely at it.

“What about it?” he said. “It’s always been there.”

“I know,” Fiona added, “but like Samuel says … who are the children in the picture supposed to be? And why did Catherine Morton stitch them into her tapestry?”

Charles glanced at her quickly. “How do you know it was her?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She showed him the initials in the corner.

Charles nodded slowly. “Oh yeah … I guess you’re right. I’d never really looked at it before.”

“I was just wondering … that was all,” Samuel broke in.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Charles remarked, as they all walked out of the library into the huge drawing room beyond.

“This place has so many secrets,” Samuel sighed. “Doesn’t it ever drive you mad?”

Charles shrugged. “I don’t think about it. Some of them we will find out … and others will remain a mystery, I expect.”

“What makes you say that?” Samuel said.

“He’s looking for inspiration,” Fiona cried. “He’s writing a ghost story for school, aren’t you, Charles?”

“Are you?” Samuel asked him.

“Private, thank you very much.” Charles shook his head
dismissively. “Got to run. Things to do.”

Fiona and Samuel watched him disappear up to the tower, taking the stairs two at a time. His room lay at the top, far away from prying eyes.

“Lucky devil,” Samuel said, watching him go.

“Why?” Fiona glanced at him.

“Well, wouldn’t it be cool to have a bedroom at the top of a tower?” he added. “Honestly, Fiona, you take this place for granted sometimes.”

“I suppose I do,” she replied, but she was looking vague and distracted again. Samuel knew that look.

“What is it?” he asked, waiting for her to elaborate. He knew she would, eventually.

“Well,” she began. “It’s just …”

“Just what?” he prompted.

“That tapestry,” she went on.

“What about it?”

“Well, it’s got me thinking. Do you remember the entry in Catherine Morton’s journal?”

“Which one,” he murmured.

“The one that was pinned open at the museum, in Edinburgh … the day we went to visit?”

“What about it?” He waited.

“They thought she was a witch, because she heard voices,” Fiona explained. “You know … she wrote about hearing a boy and girl laughing and quarrelling. Remember? The noise used to wake her up.”

“But what’s that got to do with the tapestry?” Samuel looked baffled.

“Don’t you see?” she cried, exasperated. “The boy and
the girl in the sampler? Perhaps they’re the same ones as in Catherine Morton’s diary. Perhaps
that’s
who she heard?”

“Just so long as
we
don’t start hearing anything ourselves,” Samuel said.

Their voices grew fainter as they wandered away down the passage.

Although the children didn’t know it, eyes were watching them from the shadows, listening to their voices as they whispered about their problems. Up in Charles’s room someone waited … had always been waiting.

Chris Morton had sometimes suspected that Charles was adversely affected by the house, and now and again aired the idea of moving from Dunadd altogether. She suspected that her son’s dark moods were more than teenage hormones, but perhaps it was all in her imagination. After all … he was getting to a difficult age and fourteen-year-old boys were known to be unpredictable and secretive in their habits.

This is what she told herself.

On the landing below, the grandfather clock ticked in the silence: a comforting familiar sound.

It was thoughts of this tapestry and the two figures in it that prompted Fiona and Samuel to start looking. They wanted to know who the children were. While Charles was away upstairs in his tower room, writing his precious ghost story, they wandered round Dunadd … searching for clues.

“Samuel, what exactly are we looking for?” Fiona asked, as she followed him about the dark passageways of the house, trying doors and opening cupboards.

His head reappeared from a broom cupboard, a cobweb draped across the top of it. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve … er …” she pointed to the top of his head.

He pulled the sticky cobweb off and flung it to the floor. “Place could do with a clean,” he remarked.

“Don’t tell Granny that,” Fiona said. “Anyway, you’re poking in places where we don’t normally go.”

“That’s the point! We’re looking in places where
nobody
usually goes … where anything could have been hidden away, without anyone knowing about it.” Fiona looked sceptical and fed up.

After taking a break for lunch, Samuel made a decision. “D’you know what …? I think we should go back to the library.”

“What for?”

“Because that’s where all the problems seem to begin and end in this house.”

Fiona shrugged and trotted after him, glad that Charles couldn’t see them now. He would be sure to have something to say about them conducting their own investigation.

They pushed open the library door. Shelves of books towered to the ceiling. Samuel scanned the room with his eyes for any clues. On one of the bookshelves stood a marble figure, the head and shoulders of some stuffy-looking Greek philosopher.

“Plato,” Fiona explained.

“Who?”

She shrugged. “He’s a Greek philosopher. That’s all I know. And for some reason we have a bust of him. Or rather … Dad did.”

Samuel raised a tentative hand and explored it with his fingertips. He had the briefest fantasy that a touch of the sculpture would impart some magic knowledge to him, and set them on their way to finding the answers to their mystery. But no such luck. The marble bust just sat there, looking slightly pompous and hideous.

“Ah well.” Samuel turned his back on it, sighing deeply. It was then his eyes fell upon the massive stone fireplace, set into the side of the wall.

“Big fireplace that, for a room this size,” he commented.

Fiona nodded.

“Especially as it’s never lit,” she added.

Their eyes met. “It’s funny,” Fiona said, “but now you mention it, I’ve never noticed a chimney on this part of the house.”

“Maybe it shares the same chimney as the drawing room?” Samuel said. “That’s why you can’t see it from outside.”

“That’s not possible, is it?”

The two of them approached the fireplace together, and peered up into the darkness.

“Blocked!” Samuel concluded.

“Or, like I said … no chimney.”

“A false fireplace you mean?” he asked.

“But why?” Fiona shook her head in bewilderment. “I mean … I suppose it could have just been decorative … but it seems a bit pointless.”

“It’s an old house,” Samuel shrugged. “Someone must have had their reasons. Plenty of them, probably.”

He was standing
inside
the fireplace now, feeling around the back of it with his hands. One of the stone slabs seemed to give slightly.

“Fiona,” he gasped. “Look at this.”

She crouched down, bumping herself on the old servants’ bell as she did so. Samuel pressed again upon the loose stone slab. Both of them watched in amazement as a section of the fireplace moved aside to reveal a dim passageway and a staircase leading up into the gloom beyond.

“Wow! This is amazing,” Fiona breathed softly. “I never knew this was here!”

Samuel turned to look at her. “What else don’t you know?”

As they bent to examine the opening more closely, a rush of cold air washed against their faces and they shivered.

“It’s freezing in there.”

“Where do you think it goes?” Fiona asked.

“Well, I think we’re about to find out.” Samuel was about
to step into the darkness, but Fiona stopped him, her hand on his arm.

“Wait … we need a torch first.”

She rooted around in her father’s old leather desk, then produced a flashlight, switching it on and off to test the battery.

“Seems okay,” Fiona said and handed it to Samuel. “Right. You go first.”

“Why me?”

“You’re a boy. You like taking risks.” She pushed him in front of her.

The two of them began to climb the steep narrow steps, with the help of the searchlight.

Fiona gave a wistful glance back at the entrance. She could just make it out below them, as the darkness swallowed them whole and they left the light far behind. What if someone came into the library and closed the secret staircase off again, not knowing they were in here? They might remain here forever. Her blood ran cold at the prospect. It was a risk they would just have to take. She decided not to mention her fears to Samuel. There was no point in making both of them nervous.

“Where d’you think it comes out?” she asked instead, as they climbed.

The staircase turned an abrupt corner and opened out into a low passageway.

“We must be above the drawing room now,” Samuel replied.

“Try not to make any noise,” she added. “We don’t want anyone below to hear us.”

The way twisted and turned and soon it was hard to work out exactly which part of the house they were in anymore. They felt like mice, scurrying about behind the wooden panelling.

Eventually they came to a dead end.

“What’s the matter?” Fiona asked, peering over his shoulder.

“We can’t go any further,” Samuel said.

“But we must be able to,” she insisted, disappointment flooding her.

He shook his head. “This is the end, I’m afraid.”

“Where d’you think we are?” Fiona breathed.

Samuel hazarded a guess. “Somewhere up in the tower, I’d guess. The walls seem to be either brick or stone here.” He rapped on the side of the passageway with his knuckles. Some of it sounded hollow and gave off an eerie echo.

“But why has it been blocked off?”

“I don’t know.” Samuel was at a loss. “What a find, though. Can’t wait to tell the others.

“Maybe we should start heading back,” Fiona murmured, still concerned by the thought of being trapped in there, forever.

It seemed to take an age to find their way back again and, for Fiona, the sight of daylight at the bottom of the narrow stone staircase was a huge relief as she had started to feel claustrophobic.

“Phew! Am I glad to be out of there!” she gasped, as they burst back into the library.

Samuel wasn’t listening. “We’ve found a secret staircase. How brilliant is that?”

But Fiona was staring at something over Samuel’s shoulder.

“What is it?”

She shook her head, trying to formulate the words. She had just seen – or thought she’d seen – a small, dark, shadowy shape sweep past the open doorway; so fast she wasn’t even sure she’d seen it at all. But it left her with an inexplicable
feeling
.

“Hello?” Fiona called, walking slowly towards the entrance to the drawing room. “Is anyone there?”

“What
are
you doing?” Samuel began. Fiona put her finger to her lips.

“Sssssh!”

Silence. Then … a child’s laughter. As faint as a breath of air. Hardly discernible.

“Did you hear that?” Fiona whispered hoarsely, spinning round to face Samuel.

He nodded. “It could have been anything.”

“Charles or Sebastian, you mean? I don’t think so,” Fiona said.

“Then what do you think it was?” Samuel asked nervously.

They looked at each other.

Anything was possible in this old house. Maybe they
had
found Catherine Morton’s laughing children.