The Mystery of Wickworth Manor (12 page)

It was a photograph.

A photograph of the Boy.

How was that possible?

He tugged it free of the receipts and lists and held it up to the light. It was a black and white photograph, but instead of the boy’s skin being dark, it gleamed white. And it was just his face, no neck, no body. But every eyelash, every crease of skin, the purse of his lips, the flare of his nose, every single detail was perfect. It wasn’t a photograph of the painting, though the face was identical. This was something else altogether. He flipped the photo over. Written on the back in curling handwriting were the words:
Death mask of a negro bo
y
, provenance unknown, donated to the Fitzgerald Archive Nov 1953.

Death mask?

Curtis felt his skin crawl.

He had seen death masks before during a museum visit at Northdene. People had taken wax impressions from the faces of dead bodies and made plaster casts of them. It was gross. Bizarre. And that’s what had happened to their Boy. He had been laid out on a slab, washed and then covered in wax.

Curtis felt a wave of nausea hit him.

A
death
mask?

The Boy looked the same age in the death mask and the painting. How old had he been when he died? Curtis pressed his eyes closed, but he could still see an image of the Boy, laid out in his room above the stables. That’s where they would have taken him, wouldn’t they? His body heavy and lifeless, its heat fading away. And instead of leaving him be, they had poured hot wax on his face, moulding a mask.

The sudden anger that Curtis felt was so strong that he cried out. How could anyone do that to a boy? Why had they done it?

What were the Burtons up to here all those years ago?

He paused, holding the photo.

There was one of them here still. Mrs Burton-Jones. It was her family that had done this. Her precious ancestors. He put the photograph in his pocket and stood up. He wanted answers.

Chapter 23

CJTE/044 – Tracts in support of the trade, 18th C.

The hue and cry following the loss of the runaway had settled. There had been no sign of the boy, who was no doubt lost in the throngs of London. But now curiosity followed the coach boy wherever he went. Though he rode atop the coach on outings and jaunts, just as ever, the looks he received had changed. Especially in the city. When the coach rattled over the cobblestones of the quay and the seabirds searched through the middens, the stevedores kept a watchful eye on him. Some, those who listened to the speakers in the Quaker meeting house or read tracts by Wilberforce, wished him liberty. Others, who listened to the merchants and read their words, saw their own ruin in his freedom. But none ignored him.

The boy, sitting next to the coachman, felt every eye upon him. It was as though his very skin glowed.

Chapter 24

Curtis stood in the main hallway. Lunch was over and through the open front doors he could see a half-hearted game of football taking place on the lawn. It was too hot for most of the players; the humid air was like a blanket thrown over them all. He stepped up to the door marked ‘private’ that separated Mrs Burton-Jones’s rooms from the rest of the house. He let the anger he felt bubble up again. It gave him courage. He knocked on the door and waited for a reply.

It didn’t come.

He knocked again.

Nothing.

He turned the handle and stepped into her drawing room.

It seemed deserted. The French windows were closed and the air was stifling. It felt more like a greenhouse than a place to sit. He could smell traces of lavender and rose. Maybe Mrs Burton-Jones’s perfume? But there was no sign of her.

He moved further into the room. Then stopped. One of the curtains had moved, ever so slightly. As though they had taken a gentle breath.

The room wasn’t as deserted as it appeared.

The hairs on the back of his neck tingled. ‘Who’s here?’ Curtis called. ‘I know someone’s here. Show yourself.’

Show yoursel
f
?
He was turning into a bad horror film. He pulled himself up straight. ‘Whoever you are, you’d better come out.’

The curtain rustled. The yellow satin was pulled back.

‘How did you know I was here?’ Paige asked, stepping out from behind the curtain. ‘Is your sixth sense finally waking up?’

Curtis grinned. ‘My sixth sense is absolutely fine. It’s a sense called equilibrioception; everyone has it. It lets you know whether you’re upright or not. Nothing whatsoever to do with being psychic.’

Paige shook the curtain slightly, to make sure it was hanging straight. ‘You’re feeling better then,’ she said.

‘Not really. I found something horrible. Look.’ He handed her the photo that he’d brought from his room. She took it and stared.

‘Wow. This is really weird. Is this a photo of him? Why’s he white?’

Curtis explained what he thought she was looking at
and
why he wanted to see Mrs Burton-Jones.

Paige shook her head. ‘She won’t tell you anything. Even if she knows. People like her just don’t. We’ve got a neighbour who likes to know everyone else’s business; she’s always peeping out from behind her curtains. But she never says hello to you in the street, not even if you shout. Mrs Burton-Jones reminds me of her. I think it’s the buttoned-up cardies, even though the weather’s boiling.’

Curtis took the photo back. ‘Well, I have to try something. And if you think talking to her is no use, what are you doing here?’

Paige grinned at him. ‘You won’t like it. It will score at least an eight on your freak-out-ometer.’

Curtis tried not to smile back. But he couldn’t help it. ‘Go on, tell me.’

‘Well. I was thinking about your dowsing rods. They ripped through the globe like they really wanted to break it. It was about as vicious as a couple of sticks can be.’

‘So?’

‘And the globe came up in the tarot reading last night. And in the painting, his buttons are globes. Well, I remembered that I’d seen a globe somewhere before. In this room, in fact, when we were told off on our first morning.’

Curtis looked at the object next to the curtain. An old, decorated globe, held up by an elegant wooden stand. He walked over to it. The countries were picked out in beige paint on a watery-blue background. Spidery writing covered the landmasses, the names of countries, cities and towns in a beautiful copperplate. He rested his hand on it. The surface felt wrinkled, as though it had aged. A smart push set it spinning. ‘You really believe some spirit guide told you to come and look at this, do you?’

Paige raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, it was you holding the dowsing rods. If anything, I think a spirit guide is telling you to come and look at this. And here you are!’

Curtis wondered whether he could explain the concept of coincidence to Paige. No, it would just be a waste of breath. ‘So, did you find anything?’

‘No. I just got here a second before you. I haven’t had a chance to explore yet.’ Paige crouched down, examining the globe from every angle. She ran her hands over the sphere, tapping it gently. ‘Some globes open up, you know. They’re really drinks cabinets in disguise. My uncle has one. But this one doesn’t have a latch or anything to open it with.’

‘You mean it’s a perfectly ordinary globe? What a surprise.’

‘Wait! I haven’t finished looking.’

Paige tapped the stand with her knuckles. It was made of polished wood, the colour of caramel. Its three legs arched up from the ground to a central stem. A wooden ring, like a little hula hoop around its middle, attached the globe to the stem. Paige tapped the hoop, the stem, two of the legs. The taps sounded flat and solid. Then, as she tapped the third leg, the noise changed. ‘You hear that?’ she asked.

Instead of a solid sound, it echoed slightly, like tapping a box instead of a log. ‘This bit is hollow,’ Paige grinned. Her fingers ran over the base, searching for a clasp or a catch. ‘Tip it up, I want to see the bottom.’

‘I can’t, it’s too heavy. We’ll break it.’

‘Do it,’ Paige said.

Curtis shrugged, then gripped the top of the stand and pulled it towards him. The globe tipped and began spinning gently. Curtis held tight, straining a little under the weight.

‘Good, that’s it,’ Paige said. ‘I can see something. There’s a button.’ She pressed down.

Curtis heard a sharp click.

Chapter 25

Paige felt one side of the leg drop open against her palm – a hidden compartment. She felt a tingle of excitement. She knew it! She leaned down for a better look. A small hole had opened up. It was about the size of a matchbox and she could just waggle her fingertips inside. She felt them brush up against something. It was something delicate, like moths’ wings. She gripped whatever it was gently and eased it out. It made a soft, rustling noise as it dropped from its hiding place.

‘What is it?’ Curtis asked.

‘Shh, I’m concentrating.’

Paige pulled whatever it was clear.

Curtis let the globe settle back down on to the floor. Paige wasn’t quite sure that it was in exactly the right spot, but it was near enough.

She looked at the object in her hand. It was a piece of paper, folded in quarters. It was stiff and yellow with age. ‘Should I open it?’

‘Well, it looks like good quality paper, so I should think it will be OK. And anyway, if you don’t, I will. The suspense is killing me.’

‘On
The Antiques Roadshow
they always use white gloves to handle old paper.’ Paige wasn’t sure whether the paper would just fall to bits the second she unfolded it.

‘Have you got any white gloves?’ Curtis asked.

‘No.’

‘Well then.’

Paige heard a shout from outside in the hallway, then the sound of children running. Break was nearly over. ‘What about Mrs Burton-Jones? She might be back any second.’

Curtis looked at the door and then looked at the paper in her hand. ‘You’re right. I don’t want to get caught in here now. Let’s read it upstairs.’

He peeped out to check the coast was clear. She followed him out and let the door shut quietly behind her. Phew. No one would know they’d even been there.

The heat was intense at the top of the house. She could feel her T-shirt sticking to her back. She wiped her hands on her jeans; it would be awful to put sweaty hands on the paper.

She sat down on the floor next to Curtis and unfolded it carefully.

There was something written on it. The handwriting was elegant, all swirly with loops at the top of the ‘h’s and the bottom of the ‘t’s. Like the writing on the globe.

‘It’s a letter,’ Curtis said. ‘The address is written at the top. Wickworth Manor. It was written here.’

‘Is it from the Wickworth Boy?’ Paige leaned in closer. The handwriting was so fancy that it was hard to make out the words. She rushed to the bottom, to read the signature. ‘Ver-something. Is it Verity? Who’s Verity? Why did the dowsing rods bring us to her?’

‘She inherited the house. She was Patience’s sister. She was here in 1805 when it all happened. Whatever ‘it’ was. Here, I think I can read this. It’s a bit like my old house master’s writing.’ Curtis lifted the paper and scanned it for a while; his dark eyes ran back and forth over the lines, then grew wide.