Return to Ribblestrop (20 page)

Sam said, ‘We could do an extra session tonight. After tiger-taming.’

‘These classes are important,’ said Professor Worthington, softly. ‘Captain Routon knows how I feel about ice: I will not tolerate aimless sliding about – that’s
for playtime. If you had ice-skates, it would be different. We could call it sport.’

‘Er . . . we do, Miss,’ said Asilah.

Shyly, each child revealed what they had, until this moment, been concealing: a pair of antique ice-skates, courtesy of that early trip to the Ribblestrop auction house.

‘But do they fit?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ said the children.

‘And you’re saying that despite being in the middle of a fascinating science project, you would prefer to waste your time chasing each other, falling over and generally messing about
on a frozen lake?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ said the children.

‘Very well. The headmaster and I will join you in five minutes.’

The children were out like a flock of squealing, howling birds. Some grabbed their bikes; others grabbed useful toys, such as tea-trays, sticks, and odd bits of furniture. Sam,
Ruskin, and Oli were carrying their most prized possession, finished only the night before: Millie’s radio-controlled submarine. How they had found the hours would always be a mystery, but
somehow the soldering had been completed – they’d had a bath-time trial – and it was now ready for the lake.

An interesting sight was Flavio, in a thick fur coat. He was exercising Victor, which was the name that had finally been chosen for the grumpy crocodile. The beast slithered miserably on the
ice, then rested. It was showing more animation that it had ever shown back in its trough, but it still looked sour.

‘He likes the cold,’ said Flavio. ‘I don’ know why, but he’s more restless now than he ever was.’

‘I expect he wants a good swim,’ said the headmaster. ‘Has he been in the water?’

‘I was trying to find some. The ice is too thick.’

Victor made a sudden break for freedom, but Flavio had the leash firmly and held him back. His claws scudded uselessly, and Flavio dragged him gently backwards. Victor was less than two metres,
tip-to-tip. He rarely opened his mouth, and when he did it was an unspectacular centimetre or two, as if eating was an effort. His teeth ran around his face in a crooked zip, some in, some out; his
eyelids slid open and closed, but he never seemed particularly aware of the world around him. Flavio had secretly been hoping he’d die; he longed for a pair of crocodile-skin boots and knew
just how to make them.

‘I’m going to show these miserable children how it’s done,’ said Professor Worthington, staring at the skaters. She had her own skates on and was experimenting with a few
slow moves out from the bank.

‘You skated before, huh?’ said Flavio. ‘It looks tricky to me.’

‘Figure-skating champion, University of Geneva. I was sixteen, so I’m well out of practice. Are you up for a spin, Giles?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said the headmaster. ‘I think I’ll stay back and watch Oli.’

Professor Worthington launched herself into a long, graceful arc, her arms horizontal and her right leg raised. She managed three quick pirouettes, then shoved off again in an elegant bounding
motion. In seconds she was in the centre of the lake, in the thick of a racing mob. Before long, she and Millie had divided everyone into teams and a bizarre ice-hockey game was raging. One group
kept its blazers on; the other side stripped them off and piled them up as goalposts. The puck was a punctured football, beaten flat, and Henry had soon broken enough tree branches so that everyone
had a suitable stick.

Meanwhile, the engineering party had chosen a site and it was over there that the headmaster tottered. Oli had made some adjustments to the craft’s buoyancy and, with a recharged radio, he
was keen to put it through its paces. It had a set of bright halogen lights and he had the idea that he could use it for underwater exploration. His dream was to rig it up with a camera, but that
would require a few more days’ construction. It was long and sleek: sharp as a torpedo.

Sam and Ruskin trundled the mobile-drill into position and it was soon boring through the ice.

‘Hey!’ said Sam, looking down. ‘What on earth is that?’

‘I don’t know what you’re looking at,’ said Ruskin. Ruskin’s face was still a mass of sellotape and crooked lenses.

‘Underneath us. Look! Oli, come and look at this! Sir! I can see gold!’

Sam had noticed something wonderful. It was a whirl of white ice, rising from the depths of the lake. The white water seemed to be locked inside blue ice – a form within a form. Jets of
bubbles were corkscrewing from below, and they had been caught and frozen. It was a frozen whirlpool: a vertical torrent, twisted around itself and held absolutely still. At its base was a bar of
shining gold.

‘It’s like a tree,’ said Sam. ‘It’s an ice-tree . . .’

‘Quite beautiful,’ said the headmaster. ‘It looks like an underwater fountain.’

Oli eased the submarine in through the hole that they’d cut. In seconds, lights blazing, it was nosing amongst the branches of the ice-sculpture, illuminating its blues and silvers. The
controls were definitely more responsive and he was confident enough to plunge it deeper and deeper, so that it circled the torrent.

‘Thermo-dynamics,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘A miracle of science.’

‘It’s what happens when waters of varying velocities and temperatures meet,’ continued the professor. ‘They freeze at a different rate. Gather round,
everyone – we can learn a lot from this. Oli, see if you can get the light to its root – where the bubbles start. You’ll have to go deeper.’

The hockey game had finished, and most of the children were wet and bruised. Some had chattering teeth and most were exhausted. Miles, inevitably, was bloody. He was wet through, wrapped in
Henry’s blazer.

Oli did as he was told, dropping the sub another five or six metres until its pool of light seemed worryingly dim. The radio-control crackled with static, as if it was frightened.

‘Yes,’ said Professor Worthington. ‘I’ve got a feeling about this. Just turn her round, turn her round a bit . . . there. What do you see?’

‘Is it gold?’ said Sanjay.

There was a little tremor of excitement. Most of the children were on their knees, staring through the ice. The submarine turned again and, sure enough, the flash turned itself into a long,
solid bar of precious metal.

‘It’s a sword,’ said Miles.

‘Don’t be fanciful,’ said the professor. ‘I don’t want anyone diving for that. What you’re looking at is brass and it’s just unromantic old pipework.
You’ve discovered a pump and a drainage system, Oli.’

‘What does it drain?’ said Millie.

Professor Worthington looked around. ‘Where’s Tomaz?’ she said. ‘He’ll know.’

Tomaz blushed. ‘I think there’s a way of draining the lake,’ he said. ‘But I never found out how it was done.’

‘He’s absolutely right, of course. You see? We can have a lesson after all! This is an
artificial
lake, children. Any artificial lake or pond has either to be aerated –
Sanchez, that’s one for you.’

‘Um, aerated, Miss – to add air, or refresh.’

‘Very good – in other words
oxygenate
, to stop it dying. Either that, or its waters must constantly be replenished. Now we’re fairly close to Neptune, which may contain
some of the switches. But I would say that we are also very close to the lake’s pump-room. There’s a castle in Kent that has some of these features and I wouldn’t mind betting its
pump-room is just the same. What’s the name of the local river, someone? Anjoli?’

Anjoli jumped in surprise. ‘Pardon, Miss?’

‘You’re not listening at all, are you? You were poking Brother Doonan.’

‘Sorry, Miss, I—’

‘What river takes the excess water from the Ribblestrop lake and supplies water when the level gets low?’ There was a forest of hands, but Anjoli was clueless.

‘Is it the River Strop, Miss?’ said Kenji. ‘We put it on our map – it’s a tributary river.’

‘Excellent, Kenji. How old are you?’

‘Seven, Miss.’

‘Anjoli, how old are you? Stand up straight!’

‘Ten and a half, Miss. Ten and—’

‘He puts you to shame, doesn’t he? Three years younger and he has a power of concentration I think you leave in your dormitory. I’ve been watching you this term, Anjoli –
I was hoping for a bit more application. Put your tie on properly. I hate this habit of wearing it round your head. Miles, as well, you look like a pair of tramps.’

There was a crackle of static. It was like a cough. Then, as everyone turned to look at Oli’s radio, a soft voice emerged from the little speaker. ‘Cuthbertson! Please . . . help
me!’

Everyone crept closer.

Oli clicked switches and twiddled a knob. He put his ear to it, listening intently.

‘I thought this was just a transmitter,’ said Ruskin.

‘No,’ said Oli. ‘I adapted it from a receiver. I get a few odd voices now and then. I got Radio Afghanistan once.’

‘Someone needs help,’ said Asilah. ‘Can you send a message?’

‘Or they’re fooling about,’ said Sam.

Oli groaned. ‘We’re losing the sub again,’ he said. ‘This happened last time! It’s because the frequency’s so dodgy.’

‘Give it to me,’ said Sam. But Oli wouldn’t. He pressed more switches and changed position. The radio started to cough and buzz, and all at once there was another horrible cry.
It was if somebody was trapped inside the box, breathing hard. Then the same desperate words: ‘Help me . . . help me, Cuthbertson!’ But it was faint and failing.

‘Who’s Cuthbertson?’ said Doonan.

‘It’s interfering!’ cried Oli. ‘We’re going to lose Millie’s sub!’ He was on his knees. Far below, the toy submarine was rising, but its course was
erratic. Sanjay knelt by the ice-hole next to him and rolled up his sleeves. The lights were a long way down still, but at least it was moving upwards.

‘She’s coming,’ cried Sanjay. Sam and Ruskin leaned into the hole, ready to retrieve the precious craft. At last it broke the surface and the boys grabbed at it with
relief.

At exactly that moment, disaster struck.

First Flavio’s crocodile slipped its leash. He would never work out how it happened, but at least he learned never to trust bored-looking reptiles. The creature rolled a
full circle on its back, snapped its jaws, and the leash was off – then it simply ran. It didn’t run far, because it knew exactly where it was going. As the submarine was lifted from
the ice-hole, the crocodile slipped underneath it, under the boys’ arms, and into the freezing water. Flavio leaped, but was way too slow. As that happened, the headmaster shouted in surprise
and stepped backwards. He trod hard on Sanchez’s foot with his ice-skate, grabbed him, and both were suddenly slithering on the ice on their backsides.

The assembled crowd looked to where the headmaster was pointing, horror in his eyes: the great head of the Neptune statue was moving. The children were used to it; the teachers weren’t.
They stared awestruck, as the chin tilted upwards. Oli’s radio stuttered again, a strange cry of effort or triumph; the head fell backwards so it was staring at the sky and out of the
neckhole emerged a wild-eyed Father O’Hanrahan.

His cassock was in shreds. His face was a horrible mask of blotched red and terrified white. As if this wasn’t enough – as everyone stared, not sure whether to think about
crocodiles, secret tunnels or strange-looking priests – there came the unmistakable sound of a loud, sharp gunshot. In the still of the winter air it seemed to ricochet left to right; it was
caught in the hills and bounced from sky to lake, gradually disappearing into another, more horrible silence.

Finally, from the south tower – home of Lady Vyner and her grandson Caspar – came the most awful scream.

‘An intruder,’ gasped the headmaster. ‘Children – stay here!’

He jumped to his feet and slipped straight onto his face. Skates were torn off and everyone was running.

The sun was low, so there were lights on in the south tower. There was a crash of glass or crockery, and another scream. Asilah was the fastest, closely followed by Tomaz and Imagio. They raced
up the winding staircase and reached the top landing in time to see Crippen – the elderly servant – stagger out of the door. His face was a mask of horror and he was breathless. He
leaned against the wall, gasping – there was yet another scream from inside and then it softened into a desolate wail.

The children dashed inside, piling through the Vyner rooms. Turning into the lounge, they came upon a terrible sight. Lady Vyner was on her back. The sofa she’d been sitting on had been
upended and her right hand clutched either a neck or shoulder wound. Her face was grey and her lips translucent – she was squawking and flapping weakly, in an old white nightgown, like a
broken-winged bird. The orphans gasped as one: the upper half of her nightie was drenched in blood. She tried to sit up and there was an awful sucking sound; there was a puddle of blood underneath
her and it was spreading rapidly.

The next moment Routon was there. ‘Scissors!’ he shouted and he knelt down close. Somehow scissors were found. Whatever he was saying to the old lady was inaudible – just the
murmurs of comfort one tries to offer.

Lady Vyner seemed delirious. ‘Get off me!’ she cried, flailing at the man, but Routon’s powerful hands were too strong for her. He was snipping at her clothes, gently pulling
the fabric back, probing with careful, professional fingers, even as he caught a stinging slap across his cheek.

‘I want everyone outside!’ said the headmaster, panting and wheezing. He came in close and his hand sprang to his mouth; he seemed about to faint. Nobody else moved. Lady
Vyner’s pale shoulder was coming into view and it was soaking red. You didn’t need any training to recognise – at once – the black mark of a bullet-hole.

‘Ambulance and police,’ said Professor Worthington – and raced from the room.

‘The intruder could still be at large!’ cried the head master. ‘Back to your room, boys! Asilah!’