Chill (6 page)

“A box with a key!” Samuel murmured.

“Well,” Fiona said, smoothing out the crackling papers, “she certainly wasn’t buried with it, as she wished.”

“We have to get back in the library. I want to know what’s inside that box. As she says herself, boxes hold secrets sometimes. I bet we’ll find the rest of the journal in there!”

“How can we?” she sighed. “When will we have another chance like this one? The others will be back soon.”

But Samuel had fallen mysteriously quiet, his eyes gleaming.

“Like I said, we’ll go back at night, when everyone’s asleep.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Oh yes, I can,” he said.

And she knew with a horrible sinking feeling that he meant it.

Charles and his brother Sebastian set off through the snow the next morning, into the woods above Dunadd. They wanted to be alone. Usually Fiona would have tagged along with them as well, but she seemed too busy these days.

“She’s more interested in that boy from the cottage than us,” Charles mumbled.

Sebastian cast his brother a sideways glance. “
That boy
has a name, you know. Anyway, I thought you were always glad to get rid of her? Not liking to be pestered by a kid sister, that sort of thing.”

Charles said nothing.

The snow was deep and they had to work hard to make their way uphill past the boating pond, which had completely frozen over. The stones around the edge were capped with glass, and the black reeds were caught in it too. The little blue rowing-boat at the end of the jetty was trapped in the ice as if it would never break free again. Their feet scrunched on dry snow.

“I’m just trying to protect her,” Charles muttered.

“Protect her?” Sebastian cried. “Well, there’s a first! What from, exactly?”

“I don’t know. Things have been weird lately, that’s all.”

Everything was white and glistening, sculpted and
chiselled into strange shapes, but Charles was too preoccupied to appreciate the magic of it.

“You worry about things too much,” Sebastian pointed out. “It’s all this snow. It’s getting to you, being stuck on the moor like this.”

If only you knew
, Charles thought but didn’t say a word. Sometimes the burden of his father’s letter felt too heavy to carry all on his own.

Sebastian ran ahead and threw a long spear-like stick into the forest, crying “Normal life will resume shortly.” Then he spun round to face his brother. “We hope.”

Back at Dunadd, Isabel Cunningham stood in the middle of her workshop, and surveyed the scene before her. Scattered across the workbenches were the “instruments of her trade” as she called them, bits of wire, the bottoms of green glass bottles, multi-coloured beads and shiny pieces of material. Since moving to Sheriffmuir she had been very inspired, and felt that she had produced her best work. Her latest masterpiece was a garden ornament; a huge spider’s web made from wire coathangers and old spectacle lenses. It was designed to hang in the branches of a tree, where it could catch the sunlight and sparkle like an enormous version of the real thing. It was a wintry piece to match the mood of Sheriffmuir at that moment.

She lifted her head and peered out of the small dirty pane of glass that served for a window. She still had her doubts about bringing Samuel here to live, the isolation for instance, but it was more than she could have hoped for, and Samuel had actually made friends with Fiona. They seemed to be spending
an awful lot of time together. Something was really engaging them. Whatever it was, she thought it could only be a good thing. And once the snowdrifts disappeared the children would be able to go to school at last, and Samuel would make more friends. She had only to wait patiently, she decided. She lifted her coffee mug to her lips, and smiled contentedly.

Samuel went over to the window, opened the lid of his desk and took out the papers torn from Catherine Morton’s journal. He looked at them closely, turning the delicate pages over in his hand. Catherine Morton was the Weeping Woman, he felt sure of it. She had written these as a child. It was a glimpse into a life shrouded in mystery.

If the evidence of her diary was anything to go by, she had been a spirited and intelligent twelve-year-old. What had happened to her in the end? What had transformed her into the Weeping Woman?

He replaced the papers in his desk, and looked up. It was snowing again. Big flakes fell out of the sky. Samuel thought that Granny Hughes must be wondering if she would ever see her centrally-heated flat again.

Samuel was still making his plans. He intended to visit the library when everyone was asleep. Pulling on his boots he went next door to find Fiona. The kitchen was empty, and when he called out her name, no one answered. Before he knew it, he was heading past the grandfather clock, and up the spiralling staircase to the drawing room on the first floor, drawn by the thought of the ebony box. He called out her name, but again no one answered.

On the threshold to the library he hesitated. It was so
tempting, to step into that forbidden room, and reach the box on his own, while no one was looking. There was certainly no one about; the whole house was eerily quiet.

He took one step forward, and then someone spoke his name.

“Samuel!”

The colour drained from his face. It was Mrs Morton.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for Fiona,” he mumbled.

“You won’t find her in there.”

She watched him as he retreated back the way he’d come, blushing to the roots of his hair.

“She’s gone out on Emperor, I think,” Mrs Morton added. “Although she won’t get far on a pony in this weather.”

At the boating pond there was no sign of Fiona, but he could see tracks leading around the edge of it, and into the woods beyond. The forest was very dark and quiet, an enclosed world full of shadows and shifting shapes, but something drew him in. He followed the hoof prints.

He became aware of a path beneath his feet as it wound through the dense undergrowth.

Ahead of him was a narrow clearing, with a huge standing stone at the end of it. The snow had drifted up against the side of it as it stood monumental and half-forgotten.

He walked up to it, brushed the snow aside and laid a hand on its cold pitted surface.

Behind the stone he saw another path leading through the trees. There was an eerie atmosphere here and he felt nervous. After a while he suddenly burst out into the open. He stood still and gazed. Before him was a massive clearing
surrounded by tall trees. In one of the treetops was an elaborate professional-looking tree house, built from timber and thatch, reached by a long ladder. The snow in the clearing was full of tracks, and a wisp of grey smoke drifted from an abandoned campfire. Samuel gazed about him, intrigued.

Suddenly something whizzed past his left ear and embedded itself in the trunk of a pine behind him. He turned and saw an arrow vibrating where it had landed. Charles and Sebastian stepped out from behind the trees.

Samuel rolled his eyes. “Might have known it was you!” Grasping the arrow, he wrenched it out from the tree and inspected its tip. “That could do some serious damage, you know!”

“It was supposed to,” Charles said. “What are you doing up here?”

“Looking for Fiona.” It was the second time he’d repeated that today, and so far things didn’t seem to be going well.

“She’s not here.”

“So I see.”

“Anyway, I thought she’s usually hanging out with you these days,” Charles pointed out. “Doesn’t have time for us any more.”

Samuel shrugged.

Charles eyed him suspiciously, his dark eyes unnervingly like those Samuel had seen glaring at him in the mirror on Christmas Day.

“Were you following us?” He challenged Samuel. “Because I’m warning you …” he struggled for a moment, at a loss for words. “I’m getting fed up with all this snooping around. You and Fiona are up to something, I know it.”

Samuel said nothing, but Charles hadn’t finished yet.

“It’s not a game, you know. Our dad died in that library.
It’s not some stupid detective story …”

“I didn’t say it was,” Samuel stammered.

“Well, don’t then,” Charles snapped. “Don’t snoop about. Don’t lead my sister into trouble. And
don’t
treat our lives like it’s some kind of game for you to play. Because it isn’t.”

He was shouting now, and even Sebastian was looking alarmed.

“Charles, calm down!” he murmured. “It doesn’t matter.”

Charles spun round to face his brother, his eyes dark with fury. “You’re wrong,” he said. “It
does
matter.”

With that Charles sped off into the trees, leaving Sebastian gaping after him.

“I’m sorry,” Samuel called after him. Then he added quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a game out of it. I know it matters …” But Charles wasn’t waiting around to listen. He had vanished into the darkness of the forest.

Sebastian hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “I’d better go after him,” he mumbled.

Samuel stood there alone in the snow, in the centre of the clearing, feeling utterly lonely. Something of what Charles had said stayed with him. Charles was deeply upset, confused and troubled by the atmosphere at Dunadd, and he was right, it wasn’t a game. It was deadly serious.

He listened out for the boys, wondering if they would return, but no sound broke the silence. It didn’t seem as if they would ever accept him. Sheriffmuir was their little kingdom. So far they had never had to share it with anyone else. Now Samuel and his mother had come along to change all that. It was a pity things couldn’t be different, he reflected. If only Charles and Sebastian weren’t so remote, and … difficult. He wandered
about the empty clearing, staring up at the tree house above.

After a moment or two a white horse and rider slowly came into focus through the darkness of the trees. It was Fiona. Emperor stepped into the clearing, and she slid off his back.

“What are you doing here?” she cried.

“Looking for you, actually. But I seem to have stumbled into trouble.”

“So you’ve found their secret camp. They’ll be furious with you, you know.”

“I think Charles was furious with me for other reasons. He’s upset.”

“Charles is always upset.”

“No, I mean he’s really upset. That tree house is amazing, by the way.”

“Dad had it made for the boys before he died,” Fiona said, squinting up at the structure built into the treetop. “He designed it himself and they’ve looked after it ever since. They make repairs when it gets damaged by wind or weather.” She glanced at Samuel now. “They won’t be pleased you found it.”

She kicked at the campfire until the wisp of smoke vanished, then turned to him. “Come on. We’d better be getting back before it gets dark. Want a lift?”

Together they headed off through the trees.

The forest was very gloomy, and they had to bend their heads low beneath the branches.

“Are you ever scared, coming through these woods on your own after dark?” Samuel asked her.

“No. Why should I be?”

They rode in silence for a few moments, two dark figures on a white horse, slowly negotiating the snowdrifts and the trees.

Samuel wondered briefly where Charles and Sebastian were, if they were still wandering about in the dark.

“Hold on tight,” Fiona said, and she walked Emperor down the hill towards Dunadd at a brisk pace.

At the bottom of the hill the white tower and turrets of the house loomed up ahead, smoke pouring from the chimneys. Samuel was glad to be back.

That night, Samuel couldn’t sleep. He got up and looked out of his bedroom window. Everything sparkled and glistened in the moonlight.

Making up his mind, he grabbed his coat and boots, opened the door and stepped outside. There was no wind tonight, and for once the huge beech trees were silent.

He crossed the courtyard and opened the side door to the big house. Mrs Morton didn’t appear to worry about security, and left it unlocked day and night. He was worried the dogs would bark and wake the whole household, but thankfully they recognized him and on waking wagged their tails sleepily. He took off his boots and crept through the dark house, along its winding corridors and passageways. He stole past the sleeping cockatoo in the kitchen, who didn’t so much as stir in her cage, down the hallway, past the grandfather clock, and up the spiralling staircase.

The drawing room was empty and he crept quietly across it, his feet making hardly any sound on the cold boards. Then he opened the door to the library. He had been afraid he might find it locked.

Portraits of Morton ancestors stared down on him from above, watching him with an air of disapproval. He dreaded Mrs Morton appearing in the doorway behind him. She would
never forgive him this time. There would be no mistaking what he was up to, and that would be the end of it. He and his mother would be sent packing, and have to find somewhere else to live.

He looked up and saw the carved ebony box. There it was, where he had last seen it, on top of the bookcase. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was within his grasp at last. There was a sliding ladder for reaching up to the highest places, and he took this now and pushed it along the shelves, wincing at the sound it made. He climbed up, then lifted the box down in his arms, clutching it carefully like a baby so as not to drop it. It was a heavy object, and he had difficulty in getting it down the ladder. Although covered in dust and cobwebs it was beautiful and intricately carved.

He knelt on the floor with his find, and tried to open it. It was locked. He ought to have known. Her words came back at him from the past.
“The key I have hidden away so that no one will ever find it.”
He sat back on his heels, gazed round the library, and let out a long sigh of defeat. It could be anywhere. Chances were it had been lost a long time ago, misplaced.

He searched the drawers of the desk, but found nothing, then he went to the little bureau under the window, and began searching its cubby-holes. He did at last locate a bundle of little keys, and tried each one for size, but none of them fitted.

He stroked the carved surface of the wooden box, wondering what use it was to him without a key. He wondered how old it was. It smelt quite ancient, an old wooden smell, time-worn and precious.

After a while he got up and went to the window. He stood looking out at the silvered garden, the little stone fountain covered in snow and draped in icicles, the archways and
trellises, the stone steps set into the embankment at the end of the garden, leading the way into snow-covered woods and hills beyond.

Maybe the key would be in Catherine Morton’s old room, he speculated wildly, the one that Granny Hughes and her husband were now sleeping in. He couldn’t explore there just now. Then he thought about the chest in the attic, where they’d found the papers from the journal in the first place. It was worth checking it again. If it contained her embroidery and papers from her journal, there was a distinct possibility it might also hold the key to the ebony box. It was worth a try, anyway. But dare he venture up into the attic alone, in the dark? It had been bad enough in the daytime, he thought, remembering the strange breathing sound that had started up behind them when the torch battery failed, the lid of the chest mysteriously opening and closing itself, and the objects inside folded in starched right angles as soon as he and Fiona turned their backs on it.

He took a deep breath. It had to be done.

He left the library and walked slowly through the empty drawing room, his mind set on one purpose. He made his way through the dark house to the long narrow corridor that led up into the attic. He was about to climb the rickety ladder when he realized he had no torch. It was pitch black up there. He wouldn’t be able to see a thing.

He stood in the empty corridor, thinking. Then he heard a sound in a distant part of the house. Footsteps. A door closing. The flush of a toilet. He kept very still in the shadows. No one would see him if he simply didn’t move. He waited for silence to fall again. Where would he find a torch? He thought about going to Fiona’s room and asking for help. It was tempting. He didn’t
particularly relish having to climb up to the attic on his own. He crept through the silent sleeping house, down to the kitchen, and into the utility room. A huge torch sat on the counter top where he remembered seeing it. Granny used it in emergencies, when there was a power cut. Grasping this, he returned to the rickety ladder, and stealthily climbed it, step by step.

At the mouth of the attic, he shone its powerful beam into the shadows. Beyond the curtain of cobwebs hanging down from the rafters he saw the old chest where they had left it, pushed up beneath the eaves. He went towards it, trying not to think about the dark empty spaces around him, and the strange breathing sound they had heard the last time they were up here. He flung the lid of the chest open, and looked inside at all the neatly-folded pillow cases, sheets, and carefully stitched samplers, everything so fragile and threadbare that he was almost afraid to disturb them.

He began to feel around under the linen. Some were cobwebby with age, and threatened to disintegrate under his touch. Down at the bottom, under an elaborate piece of embroidery, he felt a lumpy object. A key. There was nothing to say it was the right key, however. He pulled it out, rearranged the threadbare materials as best he could, closed the lid of the chest, and made his way back to the ladder.

Before he reached the mouth of the attic, however, the torch beam failed and suddenly plunged him into darkness, just as before. He felt his breath shorten. No, this couldn’t be happening to him. Not now. His scalp prickled under his hair. He stumbled towards the ladder, sliding his feet forward to make sure he didn’t fall through the opening altogether. Then he clambered as quickly as he could down
the narrow steps. He shook the torch in his hand, and immediately the beam sprang back to life, sending a blade of light into the shadows. He switched it off quickly, then made his way carefully back to the drawing room.

The library door stood open, and the ebony box was sitting on the floor where he had left it. He bent down and inserted the key. It fitted. It was the right key. Releasing a sigh of relief, he slowly lifted the lid of the ebony box.

It was very grimy inside, and looked as if it hadn’t been opened or the contents disturbed in years. His heart beat loudly in his chest. He was now on the verge of uncovering the rest of Catherine Morton’s unfinished story. Soon, all would be revealed. He peered inside, searched with his fingers. Disappointment flooded him. There was no journal inside here. Not even a few more fragments torn from the rest of the volume. There was only one thing inside the box. A small leather bag, which had partly disintegrated with age. He took the bag in his hand, and gently lifted it. Particles of broken leather fell from it, and he began to worry it would crumble away in his hands. He eased it open, and carefully put his fingers inside. He could feel a small hard object, wrapped in a piece of cloth and gently, very delicately, he brought it out into the moonlight to examine it. It was a piece of very old threadbare tartan, and when he unwrapped it there was an item of jewellery in its folds, a ring made of silver twisted into a knot with a Celtic pattern engraved on it. He looked at the contents of the bag in amazement. He hadn’t found the rest of the journal, but perhaps he had found another clue to the mystery of the weeping woman and her unfinished story.

He took the silver ring between his finger and thumb and held it up to the light. Although old and tarnished, it was delicately engraved.

Then, as he felt the weight of the ring in his hand, a strange thing happened. He began to hear the sobbing again, the sad sound of weeping, echoing as if she was trapped in a long empty corridor from which there was no escape.

He listened, still holding the objects in his hand, and then, just as the sound came so close that she seemed to be inside his head, a sudden silence fell.

Samuel stared down at the ring and the tartan. How long had these things lain undisturbed in the ebony box? What was their connection with Catherine Morton? Obviously the two were linked in some way. They had to be. The ring and the tartan seemed almost to have caused her outburst of grief.

He gazed around the library. Portraits stared down at him, unforgiving, but nothing moved. No one stirred.

He wondered what he should do with the things he’d found. Should he replace them in the box and return it to the bookcase?

He began to shiver with cold. Part of him dared not move in case the Weeping Woman – or worse, Mrs Morton – was outside in the drawing room, waiting for him. He had miles and miles of dark corridors to negotiate.

Carefully, he wrapped the ring in the piece of tartan, and put them back into the disintegrating leather bag. He laid the bag back inside the ebony box; then closed the lid, and thought for a minute or two. He decided to take the box and its contents with him.

As he crossed the empty drawing room, he made a deliberate effort not to look in the mirror above the fireplace.

Out on the landing, he crept towards Fiona’s room. The door was ajar, and he slipped inside. He would show her the contents of the box and the leather bag, and together they would discuss what to do about it.

Fiona’s room was in darkness. The door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open, and he paused for a minute. She was asleep in a beautiful antique four-poster bed that her mother had slept in as a girl. It was glorious, supported by great wooden posts, draped in billowing cloth, an antique in itself. Samuel could never imagine sleeping in such a bed. It would never fit into his tiny bedroom in the cottage for a start. Tentatively he moved the drapes aside.

“Fiona!” he hissed. “Wake up.”

He prodded her once or twice, and she sat bolt upright.

“What the …”

She was about to shout, but he placed a hand over her mouth.

“Shh! It’s only me. Don’t make any noise or you’ll wake everyone.”

“What are you doing?”

He looked guilty and didn’t answer at first. She immediately guessed.

“I
told
you not to go in the library again, not with the family about!”

“I’ve got the box, Fiona,” he whispered. “Look.” And he lifted it up to show her. “There’s no journal inside it though.”

“Oh.” Fiona’s face fell.

“But look what else I found.” And he took out the leather bag and put it in her hands. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Gently,” he warned. “It’s very old.”

Fiona slid her hand inside the bag and pulled out the two objects. The silver ring glistened in the palm of her hand, next to the threadbare piece of tartan. She stared at them, and then looked at Samuel. “It’s a love-ring,” she said simply.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen one before.”

They both gazed at the objects.

“What do you think it means?” Fiona said.

“It has something to do with her, with Catherine Morton. She says so herself in the diary, she wants to keep precious things in the box, things that mean a lot to her. And when I found these things, I heard her again. Just like before.”

“Did you see her?” Fiona whispered.

Samuel shook his head.

“I wonder what happened to her in the end?” Fiona murmured, turning the silver ring over and over in her hand, so that it caught the moonlight streaming through the window.

A floorboard creaked in the corridor outside.

“Quick,” Fiona hissed. “Hide.”

Samuel dived under the bed, pulling the ebony box with him, and lay very still, clutching it to his chest.

Fiona pulled the covers up, pretending to be fast asleep.

A pair of feet appeared in the doorway, and hesitated for a moment. Samuel recognized those feet – they belonged to Fiona’s mother. Then she turned, and walked back along the corridor.

They waited until they heard her bedroom door closing again.

“You can come out now,” she hissed, her upside down head appearing over the side of the bed.

“What are we going to do with these things?”

“You take them,” she said. “Keep them in the cottage. They’ll be safe there.”

“Safe from what?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seems best somehow.”

But Samuel had been thinking hard. “I think we need to do some research, about the battle that took place here. Think of the dates in the diary entries. The battle took place round about then. Maybe we can find out some more?”

They agreed to sleep on it, and tomorrow they would investigate further.

“How am I going to get out of here without being seen by your mother?” he hissed.

“You’ll have to think of something. Be very quiet.”

“Oh, that’s helpful!”

“What d’you expect me to say? It was you who decided to break into my house in the middle of the night. Follow me,” she said, getting out of bed. “But no talking!”

She led him down the spiralling staircase to the kitchen, and practically pushed him out into the cold. He stood there in his pyjamas, coat and wellies, shivering.

“See you tomorrow,” she whispered, and closed the door in his face.

As Samuel crossed the courtyard back to the cottage, the box under his arm, he felt someone watching him from above. He glanced quickly up at the house. A side-window of the library overlooked this part of the drive, and as he gazed at it now, he thought he saw the shadowy outline of a figure moving across the dark pane, back and forth, back and forth. He stood still and stared, straining his eyes in the moonlight.
Then it vanished.