The Stolen Ghosts Page 18

  Behind them, a narrow gallery passed over the entrance to the corridor. A woman wearing a grand dress and powdered wig typical of Revolutionary France walked along the gallery. Sarah ducked backwards out of sight into the mouth of the corridor.

  “Fowlis!” The grand woman called down.

  “Madame Rochert! I am so glad to see you! I feared you might be away,” called Fowlis.

  “Ah, no, I finished my haunting and returned mere hours before the first disappearances became known,” replied the glamorous lady. “And Handle! It is good to see you also. I am glad that you and Fowlis are safe. I would hate it if either of you were languishing in the Beyond. It is no place for such gentlemen,” called Madame Rochert. Handle blushed.

  “Anyway, madam, we have business to which we must attend. I look forward to speaking to you further, perhaps later in the day?” asked Fowlis.

  “But of course, mon cher,” replied Madame Rochert. She left the gallery with a rustle of her skirts.

  Sarah crept out into the room to check that the grand lady had left.

  “Sarah, thank you for hiding. That could have been most awkward indeed,” said Fowlis.

  “It’s okay, I don’t want to get you into trouble,” replied Sarah. “What room is this?”

  “The Managing Director calls it the World Room. The council likes to store interesting artefacts from the vaults up here. They tend to change the display every few days, mixing old and rare novelties with newer pieces of equipment. It is an interesting educational facility for older ghosts, who may have died long before these new technologies became commonplace,” replied Fowlis.

  “Ah, okay. I don’t even know what half of this stuff is for. Do you have anything from the future?”

  “These things have become obsolete by your time. But we have nothing from the future because it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “I understand…I think,” said Sarah.

  “This way, please.” Handle pointed to a door in the right-hand wall.

  “Fowlis Westerby!”

  Fowlis turned around with a start and groaned. A large, portly man thundered the length of the room towards him. Several strands of wispy white hair clung to his bald head. He wore a tweed suit with leather patches on the elbows and what appeared to be a novelty Christmas tie.

  “Fowlis! So glad you’re back!” boomed the newcomer.

  “Templeton.” Fowlis tried to stand in front of Sarah, but the direction of Templeton Peace’s gaze told him he had already seen her.

  “So! My favourite haunter brings a mortal with him! Here! To HQ itself!” Templeton roared and waved a pudgy hand at the room behind him.

  “Sir, if I may be so bold, the crow pushed her in here—”

  “Why was she even at the door? Moreover, why does a mortal even know about HQ?” thundered Templeton.

  Fowlis stammered a reply and Handle fiddled with his cuffs.

  Templeton broke into a grin and clapped Fowlis on the back. “Don’t worry, dear boy! I think it’s delightful you’ve brought this young lady with you! Although I hope you weren’t planning on keeping her?” Templeton reached out to shake Sarah’s hand. She looked to Fowlis, and he nodded. Sarah’s hand disappeared into the firm grasp of the loud man. She narrowed her eyes and peered at him, but Fowlis couldn’t ask what was wrong.

  “Of course I do not want to keep her!” replied Fowlis. “We were on the way to the exit when you stopped us.”

  “There’s no hurry, Fowlis my boy. Come to my study, I need to speak to you about this recent business,” said Templeton.

  “What about Sarah? We need to get her to the exit. I do not want her on our plane any longer than necessary, she’s already losing—” replied Fowlis.

  “Don’t worry, my boy, she’ll be fine,” said Templeton, breaking Fowlis off with a wave. “Handle can—ahem—handle her for a bit. Come along now, haven’t got all day.”

  Templeton started to walk away and pushed Fowlis in front of him. Fowlis tried to twist around to see Sarah and Handle. Handle grabbed Sarah’s sleeve and tugged her in the direction of Fowlis and Templeton.

  “The rules! Sarah—”

  “Oh tish and pish to the rules, Fowlis! Come on, spit spot!” Templeton stomped through the gallery and Fowlis trotted to keep up with him.

  Sarah and Handle exchanged nervous glances and followed at a respectful distance.

  Chapter 26

  Templeton’s study lay behind double walnut doors on the opposite side of HQ. The parlour was dignified and pompous and crowded bookshelves lined the walls. A giant painting of a woman in a loose dress holding aloft a torch and standing in the middle of a battleground took up one wall. More curios dotted the room and a large leather chaise longue stood proud before the bookshelves. A long table laden with food stretched along the wall below the painting.

  “Here you go, my girl, make yourself comfortable in here while I speak with Fowlis,” said Templeton, hurrying Fowlis into his study. “You too, Handle.”

  Handle looked from Templeton to Sarah and back again. His hesitation was clear, yet Templeton roughly guided him into his study behind Fowlis. His ample frame blocked the door and panic fluttered in Sarah’s chest at being separated from Fowlis and Handle. She didn’t know the rules of this plane, what she could or couldn’t do.

  “You can have a look at any of the books or knick-knacks, if you want, I’m sure you’ll find something fascinating. Help yourself to the food too,” called Templeton over his shoulder. Fowlis tried to shout something, but the study doors slammed shut.

  Sarah wandered around the room. She ran her fingers across the strings of an ornate harp and spun a large antique globe that featured most of the countries coloured in pink. She browsed the titles of the books. Ancient texts sat alongside modern novels and the classics rubbed shoulders with avant-garde plays and pulp fiction.

  Sarah wondered who Templeton was. She assumed he was a figure of some importance, but beyond that, she couldn’t guess. He wasn’t the Managing Director, but was he their chairman or their president? Did they even have presidents at HQ? Either way, she didn’t like him, and she was sure she’d seen him somewhere before. She racked her brains but the memory wouldn’t come. She knew that bald head. But where from?

  Sarah spotted the second, third and fourth volumes of The Ghostlie Manifestoe and grinned. She was glad to see something she recognised, but why hadn’t Fowlis brought the first volume back too? Wouldn’t the famous archivists he often spoke of want to get their hands on it? Then again, why were the three volumes in Templeton’s study and not the archives? She reached out to touch them but her stomach rumbled.

  She wandered back to the table groaning under the weight of a veritable feast. Something niggled at the back of her brain. The Persephone myth—that was it. Should she eat anything or would she be stuck here? Her stomach growled again in response. A golden roast chicken took pride of place in the centre of the table, with dishes of steaming vegetables at either side. Was it safe? Templeton had told her to eat, so it must be. And HQ wasn’t Hades, so it must be okay. Besides, Greek mythology was just a bunch of stories. Fowlis would have told her not to eat anything if it wasn’t safe.

  Sarah spooned three buttery roast potatoes onto a plate. She added a helping of juicy baby carrots and three slices of roast chicken, pouring thick, rich gravy over her dinner. Bowls of sweets, plates of biscuits and a platter of delicate cakes caught her eye, and she decided to sample those for dessert.

  Sarah perched on the chaise longue and balanced her plate on her knees. She shovelled the potatoes and chicken into her mouth. Sarah couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a roast dinner and this one was cooked to perfection.

  She got up to return to the table but pain clenched her insides. She dropped to her knees and clutched her stomach. Agony forced a yelp out of her lips and she prayed for help to any god that might listen. Something sharp burrowed into her and chewed up her insides as it fought its way back out.

  The double
doors burst open and Fowlis shot into the parlour. He threw himself down onto the floor beside Sarah. He put a hand on her shoulder and she looked up into his worried eyes. Wet streaks on her cheeks traced her despair. He noticed the gravy-stained plate beside her.

  “I was so hungry, I haven’t had anything all day, and Templeton said I could help myself, so I thought I would, and now I feel awful,” replied Sarah.

  Fowlis stood up and whirled to face Templeton. Pride and defiance burned in the loud man’s watery eyes. His bottom lip trembled. Handle sidled out of the study and edged his way around Fowlis. He helped Sarah sit up.

  “Why did you tell her to eat?” asked Fowlis. Fury dripped from his words. “You knew what would happen.”

  “I didn’t tell her to eat, dear boy, I merely told her she could if she wanted to,” replied Templeton.

  “Why was I not supposed to eat anything?” asked Sarah.

  She leaned on Handle for support and looked down at her hands. The grey skin now bore its usual flesh tone, and her clothes had regained their rainbow hues. She looked exactly as she did on the mortal plane, which meant only one thing.

  “If you eat something when you’re on our plane, you become one of us,” replied Fowlis.

  “What does that mean? Does that mean I’m dead?”

  Fowlis dropped his gaze and stared at the floor.

  “I want to go home,” said Sarah. A tear slid down her cheek. Handle put an arm around her. Sarah buried her face in his collar.

  “What are you playing at? Have you lost all sense, man?” Fowlis turned back to Templeton.

  “Fowlis, I really did have higher hopes for you. You should be standing by my side on the cusp of this momentous occasion, not worrying yourself sick over a random mortal. And, letting your anchor fall into said mortal’s possession—I never had you pegged as careless,” replied Templeton. His former bluster and bombast fell away, replaced by a calculating coldness that chilled Sarah. The cold flicked a switch in her mind—Templeton was the bald man from the mirror in the library.

  “What are you talking about? What occasion?” Fowlis glared at Templeton. The bald man rolled his eyes and stormed out of the parlour before Sarah could say anything.

  “Fowlis? What’s going on?” asked Sarah. The pain in her stomach subsided and yet fresh tears filled her eyes.

  “I think we’ve just discovered who’s been recalling our ghosts.” Fowlis glared at the door. “I do not know why and I do not know how, but I am convinced that he is behind it all. Sarah, I promise that I will find a way to get you home when all of this is over, but for now, will you help me to put an end to this madness?” Fowlis took one of Sarah’s hands in his and she looked down at their entwined fingers, surprised that his skin was warm to the touch.

  “You promise?”

  “On my eternal life. Do you consent?”

  “It’s not like I have any choice, is it?”

  Chapter 27

  Sarah didn’t want to be dead, but she couldn’t do much about it at the moment. Helping Fowlis seemed the only thing she could do.

  “Come on, we need to stop that evil old buzzard.” Fowlis grimaced.

  “He was the bald man I saw in the mirror,” said Sarah. Fowlis raised an eyebrow and Sarah described the photos she’d taken, as well as the freezing sensation in the room.

  “I thought that mirror was blocked, sir,” said Handle.

  “Oh, it was blocked all right. Templeton must have locked it so that no one else could use it. It was less of a mirror and more of a window, you might say,” replied Fowlis.

  “Whenever I noticed him, it felt like he was looking around the room. The way his gaze swept around…it was like the Eye of Sauron when Frodo gets to Mordor,” said Sarah.

  “What’s Mordor?” asked Handle.

  “He was definitely looking for something, and I’d wager he has been for some time,” replied Fowlis, ignoring Handle. “I have a horrible feeling I know what it was. Still, it’s safely beyond his reach for the time being.”

  “If I’m one of you now, I can eat and it won’t hurt, will it?” asked Sarah.

  “Not at all. You can do anything you want on this plane now,” replied Fowlis.

  “Good,” said Sarah. She walked over to the table and grabbed a handful of the dainty cakes and gooey cookies. Fowlis smiled at the return of her wilful spirit and led the way out of the parlour.

  Sarah half wondered if there was a portrait of her hanging somewhere in HQ now. She hoped not; it would be too awful to see a painting of herself among the dead.

  “Surely you don’t mean to consult the Oracle?” whispered Handle. Crumbs spotted his shirt; after Sarah helped herself to Templeton’s feast, Handle had decided to do the same. Whipped cream adorned his upper lip like a moustache.

  “Do you have a better idea? We hardly have time to search the whole of HQ,” replied Fowlis.

  “Who’s the Oracle?” asked Sarah.

  “Madame Blavatsky,” said Fowlis.

  “But she’s a fraud!” Sarah had watched a TV programme with her father about the nineteenth-century medium. The presenter had been at pains to discuss the importance of her writing, but the show also pointed out that she had many interesting theories, but had failed to prove them.

  “I can assure you, Sarah, that she is not,” said Fowlis. “She merely fell victim to the fact that she tried to highlight certain laws of the universe which are intended to remain hidden for a reason. The Managing Director simply had her discredited as a way of silencing her.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk to her, sir,” said Handle. “She always expects something in return.”

  “That is no problem, Handle. I have something to give her which I am sure she will love.” Fowlis directed them down another corridor. Sarah’s head swam from the effort of trying to keep up with their twisting route.

  “What could you give her, sir?”

  “Templeton’s study.”

  Handle’s jaw dropped open and Sarah raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re going to give her a room? That’s it?” Why was a room such a big deal?

  “Not just the room, my dear. Its contents as well. Everything that Templeton knows, loves, and essentially is, lies in his study. I think that should buy her co-operation, don’t you think?” asked Fowlis.

  “But it isn’t yours to give, sir!”

  “That may be true, but if my suspicions are correct, then it certainly shan’t be Templeton’s for much longer,” replied Fowlis.

  They stopped beside a stone spiral staircase carved out of the wall that curved downwards into the darkness. Green torches mounted on the wall sputtered in the cold air. Fowlis caught hold of the rope nailed into the outer wall and walked down the narrow steps. Soon all they could see was the giant feather on his hat disappearing from view. Sarah and Handle exchanged worried glances and followed the cavalier.

  After a few moments of silent descent, Fowlis stepped off the stairs and onto a landing. The staircase continued to spiral into darkness, and Sarah wondered what lived at the bottom. If Fowlis couldn’t get her home, she imagined she’d have time to find out. Years of reading fantasy novels made her hope it was a dragon of some kind. Did dragons exist on this plane?

  The landing opened out into a larger room where rib vaults criss-crossed the low ceiling, much like the crypt in the church near Cransland House. Purple flames flickered in the wall-mounted torches and their frenzied shadows danced across the rough stone walls. Silks in different shades of purple hung from the ceiling and formed a kind of tent at the far end of the room. A mahogany table stood beneath them. A hunched figure sat behind it and pored over something spread across the green baize.

  “Mr Westerby,” said the figure in heavily accented English. Her voice sounded dry and crackly, like the turning pages in a dusty tome. Fowlis entered the crypt, followed by Sarah and Handle.

  “Madame Blavatsky—” Fowlis broke the respectful hush.

  “You don’t need
to tell me why you’re here.” The medium looked up from the tarot cards spread across the table.

  Sarah peered at them but she didn’t understand the images. She thought one of the cards was marked Death, but hoped it was just the flickering light playing tricks with her eyes.

  “You are right, mortal girl. This is the Death card.” Madame Blavatsky fixed Sarah with a keen gaze and smiled. She held up the card so Sarah could see the picture better. A figure with a scythe leaned nonchalantly against a graveyard wall. The hood was thrown back to reveal a mane of curly black hair. Sarah gasped to see Death as a smiling woman. The figure tossed Sarah a cheeky wink. Sarah squeaked.

  “Does that mean I really did die?”

  “The Death card does not represent physical death,” replied the medium. “It merely highlights change—the death of one phase of life, followed by the birth of another. However, in this case, the card does not relate to you. The card appears in the Home aspect of the spread. Changes are afoot at HQ, Mr Westerby.”

  “So I’m not dead?” asked Sarah.

  “You are on the cusp, held between life and death. You ate of our food, but you have not slept in our realm. All hope is not yet lost.”

  “Madame, what do you mean by a change at HQ? Can you help us?” asked Fowlis.

  “Of course I can. I already know your offer in exchange for my words, and I accept. I shall give you Templeton in exchange for his study,” replied the medium with a broader smile. Sarah made a mental note to revise her opinion of Madame Blavatsky. Maybe she could find out more about her when she got home.

  If she got home.

  “Where is he?” asked Fowlis.

  “He’s in the Grand Ballroom, but he is not alone,” replied Madame Blavatsky. “Judging by his demeanour, he intends to be there for some time.”

  “The ballroom? We could have found him in there ourselves,” said Handle. He snorted and looked away. His foot jiggled and Sarah wondered why Madame Blavatsky made him so nervous.