The Ghastly Gerty Swindle With the Ghosts of Hungryhouse Lane Page 3

  “She doesn’t like other people,” cried the little horror, and yanked the doll out of Gerty’s hands.

  With a definite narrowing of the eyes, Gertrude Moag turned to the dog. “And who is this dear little fellow? Who’s a nice doggy with a poor bad leg, then?”

  Muldoon, whose leg was perfectly all right, rolled over on his back, thus presenting his bald, pink, mud-caked underside.

  “He wants you to scratch his belly,” said Charlie.

  “I’m allergic, dear,” said Gertrude. “Be sure and keep it out of the kitchen.”

  The time had come for Mr. and Mrs. Sweet to go, which they did with many a triumphant blast of the melodious horn. Gertrude excused herself to phone her sick mother, while Amy led the Sweet kids into the kitchen.

  Some people in this world have warm and lovely natures—they actually listen to what others have to say and are genuinely interested in what other people do. Amy Steadings was one of them. Bonnie had no trouble with allowing Lulubelle onto Miss Amy’s knee; indeed, she even agreed that Amy should get out her needle there and then and sew a nice smileymouth onto her orange face. Then the sewing had to stop, for Zoe hung Miss Amy’s arm in a sling to demonstrate her skills.

  “It’s just like you to take up first aid, Zoe. I’m sure you’ll save someone’s life one day.”

  She insisted on seeing Charlie’s juggling, even though his juggling balls were still soggy after a week up the drainpipe in the garden. He managed to get to two hundred and four before dropping one.

  “That’s wonderful, Charlie. I don’t know anyone who can juggle like that.”

  Charlie, who wasn’t used to praise, glowed in spite of himself.

  “Can we see the spooks?” asked Zoe. “I have to interview them for my school project.”

  “Tomorrow.” Miss Amy lowered her voice. “I’ll arrange an interview for ten thirty in the attic. And afterward we’ll have a picnic in the pond field. I have ever so many frogs this year, Charlie.”

  I’ll tape one if it croaks, thought Charlie.

  That night a shifting gray shape floated down through two ceilings as far as the first landing, where it took on the airs and graces of Sir James Montgomery Walsingham.

  Sir James spent most of his time sleeping—or, to be accurate, in a state of Unwakeful Serenity—but on wide-awake nights like this one he liked to get out of the attic and see a bit of the world. Going for a float, he called it. Sometimes he slid down the banister on his wig. Sometimes he even drew his sword and fought one of the velvet curtains to the death. Of course, he wouldn’t have been caught dead doing any of these things by Cordelia or that lower-class chimney ghost; but such little moments made life interesting.

  If “life” was the right word, James thought glumly. Nowadays a chap didn’t have enough muscle to turn the pages of a book, thanks to that blasted rodent long ago.

  Then he heard a noise. It almost scared his sword out of its scabbard. However, looking along the corridor, he saw that it was only that Gertrude person, the new servant, applying a bit of the old spit and polish to the ornaments in an alcove.

  Somewhere a clock struck the hour after midnight. What a chance this was to put the wind up her, good and proper! Perhaps he could rise up out of the floorboards and ask her would she like a pinch of snuff. Or he could pretend that she’d just tickled him with her duster. Nothing like a laughing ghost to turn people a nice shade of off-white.

  But these were fantasies, James knew. Amy Steadings was a stick-in-the-mud about that sort of light entertainment. She had once threatened to put James and his carboy down a well just for frightening some window-cleaning chap off his ladder.

  Drifting to the ground floor, James saw the Moag woman go to the telephone. Devilish contraption. He didn’t trust it. In his day if you wanted to speak to a chap you called for your carriage and went round to see him.

  “Make it tomorrow afternoon,” she said quietly. “They’re all going for a picnic.”

  James toyed with the idea of staring out at her from a mirror (just a little fright); but then, thinking that it wasn’t worth it, he levitated toward the attic.

  Cordelia was talking to that chimney sweep, Bobbie, who had died up a chimney in Manchester in 1831. Bobbie was a girl, though a fellow would never guess as much from the cropped hair and the rags she wore. Not to mention the bare feet. And those blasted brushes she carried everywhere. Naturally James was sorry that she’d had such a hard life, but why couldn’t she have been a ghost from good society? Not that he was a snob by any means—but a chimney sweep, dash it all! The girl never said a word—couldn’t say a word—and if there was anything James liked, it was a little cultured conversation like his own.

  “I say, Cordelia, what a worker that woman is. Imagine polishing brasses and vases at this time of night, what? She’s actually taken a picture off the wall to dust behind it. Every spider in the house must be shaking in its boots, I can tell you.” Here, James paused to glare at the brushes on Bobbie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take the hint, girl? Isn’t there something useful you could do instead of carrying those things around all day like an extra head?”

  Bobbie made a rude gesture with the brushes, which James pretended to find appalling.

  “Ha! I see we’ve been to the school of manners. It’s on a par with your tailor, by jove!”

  “Stop this nonsense, James,” said Cordelia. “I don’t see you taking off your wig or your sword or your lace hanky, either, if it comes to that, so be sensible and listen to me. There is something very strange happening. Look at your carboy. And my Rajah’s foot. They have been moved.”

  So they had. The assorted pile of junk near the attic door included his big glass bottle and the elephant’s foot, as well as that useless old spinning wheel and an ancient set of hearth irons. Cordelia’s elephant foot had been stuck into an old doll’s carriage.

  “A bit of spring cleaning, I expect,” said James.

  “You don’t think that that new woman is behaving strangely, then?”

  “There is nothing strange about people behaving strangely, Cordelia. The strange thing would be if people weren’t behaving strangely—experience tells me so.”

  And James, satisfied that he had been both witty and wise, said good night, and headed (literally) for his carboy.

  6 …

  An Interview with Spooks

  I’ll have toast with honey,” said Bonnie at the breakfast table.

  “I’ll have peanut butter with crackers,” said Charlie.

  “And I’ll have pâté de fois gras,” said Zoe, sounding very French.

  Their cook, Gertrude Moag, planted a fat-fingered hand on one hip and waved the knife with which she had been slicing tomatoes and spring onions.

  “Where do you think this is, the Ritz? Eh? You’ll eat what’s in front of you. I have sandwiches to make for the lot of you. You’re going on a picnic this afternoon, remember? And you”—she meant Charlie—“if you’re going to juggle, do it with one apple. Put two of those back in the dish. And what is that clipboard doing on the table, young lady?”

  “I am conducting an interview at ten thirty,” Zoe replied very stiffly, “and Charlie is allowed to juggle with three pears back home.”

  At that moment the door opened and in sauntered Muldoon with his leg (a different leg) in a beautiful bandage. He may have been heading under the table, for experience had taught him that this was a good place to pick up scraps, but he never made it.

  “Beat it, fleabag!”

  He was a coward, Muldoon. Through the door he streaked, a flash of white bandage.

  “You might have hurt his feelings, you know,” said Zoe. “And if we are having only Shredded Wheat, I want mine with warm milk.”

  “It’s the summertime, sweetie,” said Gertrude Moag.

  Bonnie couldn’t help staring up at her with large eyes. Who was this person who shouted at Muldoon and called people sweetie and made Charlie juggle with just one apple? If she was supposed to b
e a governess, she didn’t look a bit like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music—she was far more like the wicked stepmothers Bonnie had read about in books.

  “If it’s the summertime,” Zoe retorted, “it’s warm enough to eat cold Shredded Wheat in the garden.” And so saying, she led the Sweet kids through the back door. They sat on some logs near a clump of lupins, for the weak morning sunshine had not yet dried up the dew on the grass.

  They finished breakfast in silence while Charlie taped one of the local grasshoppers. Zoe found herself wondering whether she would give first aid to that terrible woman if the big knife slipped and she sliced up her finger instead of an onion. Probably she would—first-aiders couldn’t pick and choose like that; it wouldn’t be right. They had to save life in all circumstances. She’d certainly ask Gertrude Moag to pay for the bandages afterward, though.

  “Zoe,” whispered Bonnie, “do you think she’s a wicked stepmother?”

  “No. It’s more likely that she worked for a long time in a prison for bad people. Pass me my clipboard please, Bonnie.”

  After Charlie had taped Muldoon slurping up cold leftover Shredded Wheat milk, they all headed for the attic.

  The Sweet children had many faults, of course, but being nervous was not one of them. They were not afraid of deep dark holes in the corners of bedrooms, nor did they hide under the covers when things went bump in the night. Besides, they had met Lady Cordelia and Sir James and little Bobbie before; and so, when they entered the attic that morning, they might just as well have been visiting three odd but distant relatives.

  “Hi,” said Zoe. “I’ve got some questions here. We do projects in school nowadays. It’s part of our education, okay?”

  Lady Cordelia glowed under the skylight like the seed head of a dandelion. Sir James leaned to one side, as always, with his hanky hand on the hilt of his sword. (Maybe he was a bit heavier on the sword side, Charlie thought.) Bonnie stared at Bobbie. This sad little ghost, who had been used as a human brush, was the one she liked best, although not well enough to let her hold Lulubelle. Bonnie couldn’t remember whether a ghost could hold Lulubelle.

  “We are so pleased to see you again,” said Lady Cordelia. “Aren’t we, James? And I know that Bobbie is too.”

  Bobbie waved her brushes, but Sir James wore his bounder-who-put-frog-spawn-in-my-carboy expression as he said, “I’m not so sure about this interview. People in our position don’t like publicity—Unwakeful Serenity and all that. The fewer people who know about us, the better.”

  “You needn’t worry,” said Zoe. “I’ll not mention your names. I’ll just call you Spooks One, Two and Three.”

  “Hang on a minute,” said Charlie.

  He had preparations to make. From his little recorder he removed his tape of country sounds and replaced it with a fresh one. “Spook interview, side one. Recording engineer, Charlie Sweet.” He glanced up at the three curious ghosts. “Right, you’re on. And don’t mumble.”

  “Must you call me a spook?” asked James. “I’m a Nonmaterial Presence, if you must refer to me at all!”

  It really was a very fine interview—Zoe was sure that her topic would beat every other one out of sight and make people jealous of her. The only problem was that Cordelia said such interesting things about being a ghost that Zoe forgot to write some of them down. For once Charlie’s sound-recording skills were coming in useful.

  “There is a sadness about all ghosts,” she said, smoothing her insubstantial dress with weightless hands. “Imagine being a ghost at a party. You can’t dance, can’t eat the lovely food, can’t make eyes at someone with wonderful manners and a splendid title—he would be sure to run away if you did! And of course, you can’t open presents. If you are a ghost, you are the way you are. You may be able to float through windows or melt into walls, but what use are skills like these when you can never dance a minuet under glittering chandeliers, or wear the latest fashions? No. One’s hairdo is forever, I’m afraid.”

  There was such a deep silence in the attic when Cordelia finished her reflections that she became quite embarrassed. “Gracious me, I didn’t mean to sound so depressing! Let’s talk about something more interesting. Did you get the lead soldiers?”

  “What lead soldiers?” asked Charlie.

  “The ones Miss Amy’s new companion put inside the grandfather clock. I thought it was a strange thing to do, but then you children arrived.”

  “She put them into the clock?” said Charlie.

  “Yes. I assume she means to give them to you in case you are bored.”

  Bonnie wanted to know more about the spooks. “What color is your toothbrush?” she asked James, who glared at her down the outline of his long nose.

  “What color is my what?”

  “He hasn’t got a toothbrush,” said Charlie. “He’s like Lulubelle.”

  “Lulubelle uses mine!” cried Bonnie.

  “She doesn’t. She has no teeth. She didn’t even have a mouth until yesterday.”

  “You are not allowed to say things to me,” screamed Bonnie.

  “I am if they’re true. She can’t use a toothbrush and she can’t wash her face and she can’t comb her hair and she never uses toilet paper.”

  This was too much. The huge eyes that melted the hearts of strangers in the street now seemed to light up with an inner fury as Bonnie forgot where she was.

  “Mommy, he’s saying things, he’s saying things, he says Lulubelle never uses toilet paper!”

  Even Lulubelle went berserk and belted Charlie on the jaw, while Muldoon chose to howl in sympathy. The noise was so awful that the little sweep put her hands over her ears and melted through the chimney wall—brushes and all.

  “Stop it, stop it!” Zoe yelled above them all. “They’ll fill in the swimming pool, they’ll fill in the swimming pool, and we need it for sick dolphins!”

  Good gracious me, Cordelia said to herself. It was quite beyond her understanding how three children and a dog could suddenly make such an unbelievable noise. She looked around for James—just in time to see his feet disappearing through the roof.

  Madness, thought James. Mayhem and utter madness! Was there peace anywhere on Earth—was it true what Amy Steadings had said, could a fellow nowadays go to the moon?

  Fortunately it was a calm day outside, and by taking reasonable precautions he made it to the hayloft. There was a plague of blasted mice in the hayloft, of course, but right now he regarded the beasts as the lesser of two evils. They only squeaked.

  Toothbrushes and toilet paper. Modern inventions! If that’s progress, thought James, you can jolly well hang me in the morning. “Time is my enemy,” he cried, while drawing his sword in a way that helped him to relieve his feelings. “Time itself! Why don’t they learn how to stop time instead of pussyfooting about with toothbrushes and toilet paper? Now, that would be progress!”

  After some minutes of prancing about in the hayloft, he returned to the house, fearful that a storm might come up and leave him stranded among mice. On easing his Presence through a landing window, he saw something that made him pause for a pinch of imaginary snuff. The youngest of the three horrors was fiddling with the door of the grandfather clock.

  What was she up to now? How nice it would be, thought James, if the door closed and the clock somehow ate her. This thought, and the snuff, made him feel more like himself as he levitated toward the attic.

  7 …

  Tongue Sandwiches

  Although it was half past twelve in the middle of the day, Bonnie sneaked along the first landing like a thief in the night. She had Lulubelle with her. Hidden down the front of her jogging suit she also had Charlie’s juggling balls.

  She had things to do. Important things. And she didn’t want anybody to see her doing them, because that would spoil her special plan to pay Charlie back for being beastly to Lulubelle.

  The list of Charlie’s crimes against Lulubelle was now too long to be ignored. Last week at bathtime he’d said she wanted to
marry a duck, and he had also made her float in the soap dish with a sign around her neck saying SHARK BAIT. And how dare he say that she never used toilet paper! He was getting far too fresh, and Bonnie knew just what to do about that.

  With a quick dart she made it to the door of the grandfather clock. Her second favorite ghost—the one dressed like Cinderella at the ball when the clock struck twelve and she had to run away leaving the sad prince holding her lovely little sparkling slipper—had given her a wonderful idea for a hiding place. Imagine a clock with a door! Even her teacher at school didn’t know that clocks had doors—she would certainly have told Bonnie if she did.

  For just a quick shivery moment, Bonnie had the funniest feeling that someone was watching her, so she checked again that all was clear before opening the clock to pop the balls inside. Charlie would never guess!

  There wasn’t much room in there. The big swingy brass thing had been tied to one side to make space for lots of other objects, including a gun that looked like a trumpet. Bonnie tiptoed away from the clock as carefully as she had arrived.

  Twenty minutes later the clock on the landing had another visitor. Charlie, too, remembered what Lady Cordelia had said that morning, and his curiosity had been aroused for three reasons: One, he wanted to tape the clock ticking; two, he wanted to see the lead soldiers; and three, he just wanted to look in and see clock guts.

  But when he arrived, the clock had stopped ticking. As he discovered on opening the door, this was because the pendulum had been tied up. And the lead soldiers couldn’t be seen under a pile of other things—including his own juggling balls.

  There was no mystery here for Charlie. He knew how those balls had gotten there. He knew why, and he knew by whom.

  Okay. So she wanted to play rough.

  He went looking for Lulubelle.

  Down in the kitchen Gerty glanced anxiously at her watch as she wrapped up the egg-salad sandwiches, and then the tongue ones. It was getting late. How in the name of goodness did it take them so long to get organized for a stupid picnic?