Castle of Shadows (5 page)

A cavern appeared beneath the moustaches. The corporal roared with laughter. ‘The Prime Minister don’t see little kids like you. He’s got important matters to deal with. Now hop it! Go on home to your mum before you get in real trouble, there’s a good girl.’

Charlie was used to being ignored, but she wasn’t used to being anonymous. She didn’t like it. She stretched herself up and focused her most freezing look on the corporal. ‘I am not a good girl,’ she said. ‘And my mother, the Queen, vanished five years ago. I am the Princess Charlotte Augusta Joanna Hortense, and I want to see the Prime Minister. Now kindly open the door and announce me!’

The corporal’s eyebrows grew together into a caterpillar of a frown. His ears glowed pink, and he began to splutter. ‘Princess?’ he roared. ‘What do you take me for? D’you think Princess Charlotte would go round in a dirty dress and torn stockings? You’ve had your little joke, kid, now be off. Go on, or I’ll box your ears!’

He took a step forward. Charlie was rooted to the spot,
unable to move, watching in horror as he raised a giant hand. Neither of them had noticed the door swinging open, or the man watching them from the threshold. Now he cleared his throat. The corporal snapped to attention.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ murmured the Prime Minister, bowing deeply. ‘How may I help you?’

It felt strange to be back in her father’s old office. It was every bit as grand as she remembered, with high ceilings, sparkling chandeliers and gloomy paintings of important-looking people. A large portrait of her father in his coronation robes, looking stiff and nervous and hardly older than Tobias, hung on the wall behind the Prime Minister’s desk. Charlie’s eyes kept flitting up to it as she shifted nervously on her chair.

‘A biscuit, Your Highness?’ Alistair Windlass reached into a drawer and pulled out a large tin. She hadn’t seen biscuits like them for years. Her fingers hovered over thick chocolate; her eyes lingered on pink icing. She darted a look at the Prime Minister and scooped up one of each. As she took a bite, she glanced up and saw him watching her. A crumb lodged halfway down her throat, and she began to cough. He waited until she spluttered to a stop, then said: ‘It is, of course, a pleasure to renew your acquaintance, Princess Charlotte. But I hope nothing is wrong. Please, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’

Something about the sound of the word ‘honour’ made Charlie swallow the last of her biscuit and sit quite still, staring at him. Even in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, Alistair Windlass was nearly as elegant as Mr Moleglass. He was
tall and slender. He had long, curving eyebrows above blue eyes – eyes watchful as a hawk’s. His hair, thick and straight, was the colour of faded straw, and his mouth quirked up on one side when he smiled. He was undeniably handsome, but she preferred her father’s funny, long-nosed face.

His smile grew a shadow of impatience. ‘Come now, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘I’m a busy man, and I would hate to think that you have disturbed my work this morning for no reason. Tell me why you are here. Quickly, now, or I shall have to ask you to leave.’

Surely she could trust him. Her fingers crept into her pocket, found the letter. She glanced up to see Windlass watching her. She pushed the letter deeper, pulled out her handkerchief and began to wipe smears of icing and biscuit from her hands. She kept her head down, lying without knowing why she was doing so. ‘I overheard a rumour,’ she began. ‘One of the servants—’

‘Ah,’ he said, and in that ‘ah’ Charlie heard exactly what he thought of little girls who listened to servants’ gossip. She felt her face blush as red as her petticoat.

‘One of the servants,’ she repeated grimly, ‘said that the Kingdom is cursed.’

‘That’s an old tale. I advise you to disregard it. I’m surprised you believe in such nonsense.’ He glanced down, selected a portfolio from one of the tidy piles on his desk. ‘Now, if you will excuse me—’

‘You don’t understand!’ She needed time to think. If
she didn’t show him her mother’s letter, at least she must talk to him about her father. ‘I know people have said the Kingdom’s been cursed since my mother…’ She paused, surprised by a tightness in her throat.

‘Most unfortunate.’ He did not look at her. He snapped open the portfolio and picked up a pen.

Suddenly she was furious. How dare he sit there, refusing to listen, making her feel stupid and small? And now he expected her to slink away. She found she had jumped off her chair and was shouting: ‘
Unfortunate?
The Queen disappears for five years, and you call it
unfortunate
? In case you haven’t noticed, it’s the Kingdom that’s been unfortunate! The country’s in recession! Crops have failed again! People are out of work and hungry!’

His head jerked up. He stared at her, but Charlie couldn’t stop the words pushing out: ‘Of course I don’t believe the Kingdom is cursed! I’m not an idiot! What matters is that people are looking for someone to blame for the bad times. And from what the servants are saying, I think they’ve decided to blame my father! Haven’t you heard of the Republicans? The Radicals? Some of them want to cut off my father’s head, like they did thirty years ago to the Esceanian king! There’s a revolution brewing, Mr Prime Minister, and I want to know what you are doing about it!’

He put down his pen. ‘Just what have you overheard?’ His eyes were a blue so pale as to be almost silver. His
mouth was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. They were as cold and empty as a winter sky at twilight. ‘Tell me,’ he said softly, and Charlie knew she had no choice.

‘Some people think that my father…murdered my mother,’ she whispered. Other than a slight widening of the eyes, his face showed nothing. She shut her own eyes for a moment, feeling sick. When she opened them, he was leaning forward, watching her.

‘This has all been upsetting for you,’ he said. ‘Please don’t worry about your father. It was brave of you to come to me, but I already knew of this rumour and dozens like it.’

He leant back in his chair, but his eyes never left her face. ‘You see, ordinary people need rumours. They like to blame their problems on some agency, whether human or supernatural. They like to think that there is a reason for the things that happen to them, both good and bad, rather than to accept that most things happen through a combination of chance, circumstance and their own lack of foresight. You understand this already because you are an intelligent girl. Oh yes,’ he smiled at her – and his smile was a gift. It made her blink and look at the floor. ‘You take after your mother. A woman of remarkable intellect. Her thesis on refractive crystals—’

Relief hit her like a punch in the stomach. She had been right to come after all. He
had
been her mother’s friend. The warmth in his voice was unmistakeable. And he knew
about the science. Her fingers crept into her pocket, touched the letter. She had been a fool not to show it to him straight away. She could have ruined everything, but he had forgiven her outburst. It wasn’t too late.

‘I want to find my mother,’ she said.

‘Of course.’ She felt his attention sharpen. The sympathy in his face was tinged with concern. ‘We all do. Your father… But you must know we
have
searched. For years.’ His voice barely changed, but she suddenly knew that he wanted her mother’s return as much as she did. She came to her decision.

‘A few days ago,’ she said. ‘I found this.’ She pulled the letter from her pocket and handed it to him.

Windlass spread it out on his desk and read it. A look of blank amazement flowed across his face. Then, for a moment only, there was a look of such pain that she felt embarrassed, as though she were eavesdropping on a private grief. He looked up, and she thought she must have imagined it: his face was perfectly calm. He handed the letter back to her. ‘Thank you for your trust in me, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘I believe this to be the first clue to your mother’s disappearance ever found. It explains a great deal. I only wish she had felt able to confide…’ He paused. ‘Obviously, I know what your mother was researching. Indeed, she was working at my request.’

‘On what?’

‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I can’t tell you that. It concerns national security. But I assure you, everything possible
was done – is still being done – to locate her. This letter advances us, but only a little. Try not to hope too much.’

‘But she left because she discovered something. Something horrible!’

‘So it would seem.’

‘What was it? What was she frightened of? Why didn’t she go to you? Surely you and my father could have protected her!’

‘If only she had trusted us to do so. We must hope that she is still alive, and that she has not fallen into the wrong hands.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’ve shocked you. I should not have said that. There is much I cannot tell you, and I think it best if we don’t discuss this further. But please believe that I will not rest until I have engineered your mother’s safe return.’

‘Do you know who Bettina is?’

‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘I do not know the name. Obviously, I will endeavour to find out. You have given us a chance. If something comes of it, you will be the first to know. And now, I want to know a bit more about you, Charlie. May I call you Charlie? I heard your mother do so many times.’

She nodded, dazed. Perhaps everything would be all right. Perhaps she had given him the clue he needed.

‘You will excuse my impertinence, but why are you dressed like a ragamuffin? What is your governess thinking of?’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘Governess?’

His eyebrows raised. ‘Have you a lady’s maid?’

She shook her head.

‘Where are your quarters, Charlie?’

‘I live in the east attics. I like it there!’ she added quickly, seeing his mouth tighten. ‘I love my attic room! Please don’t make me move.’

‘Do you receive any sort of schooling?’

She shook her head, blushing.

‘But you can read, obviously.’

‘My mother taught me, before she…’

‘I see.’ He paused, his face grown so cold and remote she was almost frightened. ‘I owe you an apology, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I have been so concerned with finding the mother that I forgot about the daughter. Don’t worry. I will rectify my mistake. And now, I’m rather busy today and can’t allow myself the pleasure of seeing you to your quarters. I trust you can find your own way back?’

‘But my father? The Republicans?’

‘I am well aware of each and every radical organisation at work in this country. They are observed and kept under control. Your father has entrusted the care of the Kingdom to me. I take that charge very seriously.’

He rose from his chair, and she jumped up, feeling suddenly like a scared rabbit, although she couldn’t imagine why, as he took her hand and bowed over it, smiling at her with real warmth in his eyes. He held the door open, and Charlie almost ran from the room. She had done the right thing, giving him the letter. He would
find her mother for her. She knew it. But, kind as he had been, something about Alistair Windlass unnerved her.

She pounded up the grand staircase, racing past the corporal and his moustaches, the marble and crystal, the pomp and polish and smell of power, without noticingany of it. The only thing she wanted was to get back to her attic. Things were going to happen now. Not just abouther mother. Things about her. She had seen it in Windlass’s face. And Mrs O’Dair was not going to like it. Charlie didn’t know whether to be pleased or terrified.

‘Stand still, girl! How do you expect Mrs Petch to set the hem straight if you keep fidgeting?’

Charlie looked at the floor and tried not to move. It felt as if she had been standing on this chair in the housekeeper’s office, with Tobias’s mother pinning up the hem of her new dress, for hours. She avoided O’Dair’s eye. For days now, the slightest thing sent thehousekeeper into spasms of fury.

Charlie had not seen the Prime Minister again, but she thought about him constantly, and about his promise to try to find her mother. He was Prime Minister of Quale. Surely he would succeed. When he did, her life would change again, and Mrs O’Dair would no longer matter.

Her nose began to itch, but if she raised a hand to scratch it, the housekeeper would shout and poor Rose Petch would tremble with fear. She wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore the itch. The seamstress gave a weary sigh and leant back on her heels. ‘I’ve finished, madam. Shall I help the Princess off with the dress and take it away to hem?’ She cast an anxious glance at Mrs O’Dair, who was seated at her desk writing out the household accounts.

‘One moment,’ ordered the housekeeper, rising from
her chair. The seamstress gave a gasp of dismay and scurried to one side as Mrs O’Dair stalked round Charlie with the deadly intensity of a buzzard circling for prey. ‘This silk is far too expensive to allow errors. The Prime Minister would have it, although I told him it was too dear. What a waste!’ she hissed, shooting a vicious glance at Charlie. ‘Very well. You may take the wretched thing away. I want it finished by morning.’

‘Yes, madam.’

Charlie was soon free of the heavy silk. Rose picked up her old clothes.

‘You are not paid to help the girl dress.’ Mrs O’Dair had not looked up from her desk, but her voice was heavy with menace. Rose’s hands shook as she bundled her sewing together. She gave Charlie a timid smile and fled the room.

All the time she was dressing, Charlie felt O’Dair watching her. As she was pulling on her boots, she dared a glance at the housekeeper. O’Dair’s black eyes were fastened on her, glistening with an emotion that made Charlie shiver and look down, her fingers suddenly clumsy as they struggled with the broken laces. She’d always known Mrs O’Dair disliked her, but what she had glimpsed in the housekeeper’s eyes was pure poisonous hatred. O’Dair lunged to her feet, corsets popping, sailed to the door and flung it open.

‘Follow me, girl. You’re to learn Latin grammar and Mathematics.’ O’Dair snorted derisively but did not speak
again as she wheezed and creaked her way to the attics, moving so quickly that Charlie had to run to keep up.

Flinging open the door of a room, the housekeeper thrust Charlie inside. The thin, elderly man sitting behind the desk clambered to his feet. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your charge,’ Mrs O’Dair snapped. ‘Make what you will of her, but you are to have her four hours a day, and that is four hours I shall not have to bother with the creature!’

The old man drew himself up. ‘The Prime Minister has given me his instructions for Her Royal Highness.’

The housekeeper turned and left, slamming the door behind her.

‘What a singularly unpleasant woman!’ The old man collapsed into his chair, mopping his forehead with a large handkerchief. ‘Oh!’ He stared at Charlie in dismay and bounced to his feet. ‘Do forgive me!’ He waved his handkerchief in agitation. ‘May I sit in your presence, ma’am?’

Charlie’s mouth fell open. ‘Why shouldn’t you?’

‘Protocol, ma’am. Protocol. Oh dear,’ he said as she continued to stare blankly at him. ‘The Prime Minister told me that you were sadly undereducated. I thought he meant academically, but I see you are unschooled in a range of subjects. Would you care to sit at that desk, ma’am, while we endeavour to find out the extent of your ignorance?’

Charlie looked where he was pointing and saw a
brightly varnished school desk complete with inkwell and quill. Full of trepidation, she slid into the seat. Her teacher sat at his desk.

‘First, allow me to introduce myself: Professor Archibald Meadowsweet. You may call me “Professor”.’ He jumped to his feet and bowed stiffly from the waist. Charlie found herself staring at the bald pink circle on top of his head and had to smother a hysterical giggle. Not certain what the polite response was, she stood, too.

‘No, no!’ said the Professor, shaking his head so violently that his white hair stuck out like a halo of candyfloss. ‘Do not stand, ma’am. Incline your head graciously, like this.’ He demonstrated. The top of his head now looked like a pink-eyed daisy. Charlie burst out laughing.

‘Really, ma’am,’ he said, shaking his head sadly, ‘I see little that is humorous in our situation.’

Two hours later, Charlie could only agree. She was eleven years old, and it seemed that she knew almost nothing.

‘Mathematics, little; Latin, Greek, Modern Languages, none; Geography and Statecraft, none; Biology, Chemistry, none; Physics, none; History, little…’ On and on droned the professor, peering at his notes, while Charlie sank lower and lower in her chair. ‘Spelling and Vocabulary, good; Reading, excellent; Grammar, adequate; knowledge of Literature, haphazard; Etiquette, none; Deportment, little.’ The Professor sighed, took his
handkerchief and mopped at his large forehead. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Where to start?’

Charlie trudged down the third flight of stairs. It was lunchtime, and she was exhausted. Half an hour each of History, Mathematics and Latin, followed by a lecture on Etiquette. Her brain felt wrung out.

The Prime Minister had ordered that she eat all her meals in the lesser dining room. Three times a day she had to sit all alone at the vast polished table with her plate floating in the middle of the shiny dark wood like a raft lost at sea. There was no question of reading at the table. She had to concentrate on the food. It made the mutton taste stringier, the vegetables soggier, the pudding thicker. Mrs O’Dair had been forced to increase her rations, but she made sure the food served to Charlie was as unpleasant as possible.

Worst of all were the footmen. At every meal one of them stood beside the door, impersonating a chair or a lamp. In the awful silence created by someone pretending to be a piece of furniture, Charlie had to slurp her soup and chew her gristle. Every time she began to relax, the footman would silently appear behind her and whisk away her plate from one side while sliding a new plate in from the other. No doubt Professor Meadowsweet would say it was Etiquette. Charlie hated Etiquette.

Etiquette or not, she was hungry. She clattered down
the last of the stairs and ran along the corridor leading to the lesser dining room. In front of the door stood a footman, staring straight ahead, pretending to be a potted plant. It was Alfie Postlethwaite. This was not a good day.

Instead of holding the door open for her, Alfie looked into the distance over her head and said, ‘Your Royal Highness is to report to the Prime Minister.’

‘B-but I haven’t had my lunch yet.’

‘Your Royal Highness is to report to the Prime Minister at once.’ Alfie smirked. Smugness radiated off him like heat from a coal fire. She could have kicked him.

‘Did you know, Alfred,’ she said sweetly, ‘that you’ve got a really disgusting spot on the end of your nose?’

The sight of his face flushing red as beetroot jelly cheered her as she began the long journey to the ministerial wing.

This time, the corporal smiled through his moustaches at her. ‘Your Highness is to wait in the office for the Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘He’ll not be long.’ She smiled back at him, and he opened the door for her with a flourish. She held her head up and strode into the office, feeling slightly grand.

The door shut behind her. In the Prime Minister’s absence, the room seemed much larger. Beneath the gaze of her father’s portrait, she wandered around the room, noticing how it had changed. His battered old desk was gone. She remembered him picking her up and sitting her
in the middle of all his papers, so that she could play with his blotter, rocking it back and forth and pretending it was a ship battling through a storm at sea. That desk had been replaced by a grand affair of polished mahogany and inlaid leather.

In the far corner, partly screened by a tall cupboard, she spotted another door and remembered her father’s extraordinarily grand privy. She ran across and flung open the door. It was all still there – the most beautiful water closet she had ever seen. It had a giant wooden thunderbox and a large marble sink with a tap for hot as well as cold water. She couldn’t resist. She turned on the hot tap. The water splashing into the basin was cool at first, but it soon warmed, and Charlie held her hands under the flow. What a marvellous extravagance! Warm water from a tap rather than icy cold in a jug that had been toted up dozens of stairs. No wonder Alistair Windlass looked so clean. If she had such a thing, she might enjoy washing too. Although she doubted it.

‘…five minutes. I have an appointment.’

Charlie froze at the sound of Windlass’s voice. She felt her face burn red. He would think… She turned off the water, hesitated, uncertain what to do. The sound of his visitor’s voice decided her, and she pulled the door almost closed and stood beside it, listening.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, I’m sure,’ said Mrs O’Dair. Her words chewed the air like grindstones, ponderous and implacable. Charlie was shocked by the resentment
snarling in the housekeeper’s voice. How dared she speak like that to the Prime Minister? ‘But I requested a meeting last week. I have had no response. Not one word!’

‘Pressure of work, dear lady.’ Windlass’s voice was as smooth and glossy as mayonnaise. ‘Come, seat yourself. I can spare a few minutes. Indeed, although this is not the ideal time, I have been intending to clarify my instructions concerning Her Royal Highness.’

‘It is precisely those instructions I wish to discuss,’ said O’Dair. ‘Five years ago you entrusted all domestic issues concerning the Castle and its inhabitants to me. Until now, you have expressed no dissatisfaction with my work. Indeed, I was under the impression that you had no interest in such details. I have devoted my life, these past years, to the efficient running of the Castle and to making sure you were not bothered with trivial matters. Now, suddenly, you issue specific instructions regarding one of my charges.’

‘One of your charges?’ Windlass’s voice was quizzical. ‘Her Highness is not a domestic servant, O’Dair. Indeed, no domestic would have stayed to endure the treatment you appear to have meted out to the Royal Heir!’

There was the sound of heavy breathing. Charlie had a vision of O’Dair’s face turning the colour of boiled ham.

‘You have no experience of children, if you excuse my saying so, Prime Minister. Such things are best left to me. I’m sure you mean well, but your interference is not helpful. It confuses the staff and lessens my authority. In
issuing these instructions, sir, you are intruding on my domain!’

There was a moment of silence. When Windlass finally spoke, his voice was so quiet Charlie could barely hear the words. ‘Your domain?’ Something in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. It seemed to have a similar effect on the housekeeper.

‘I-I didn’t mean—’

‘You are employed, Mrs O’Dair, to follow orders. If you cannot do so, I will find someone who can.’

‘I apologise, sir! I—’

‘I don’t have time for this. Consider yourself lucky that I am too busy at present to find your replacement. But be aware that you are under scrutiny. I will not allow any more neglect of the Princess. You exceeded your instructions. Do not do so again. Do you understand? Good. Now…you may leave.’

Charlie held her breath. There was the distant creak of corsets, the thud of a door. Then she heard brisk footsteps and Windlass’s voice: ‘Her Royal Highness is late. Send word—’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the corporal, astonishment in every syllable, ‘but I let Her Highness into your office over fifteen minutes ago!’

Charlie squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. She listened to the sound of the door closing again.

‘Please come out, Charlie. If you’ve quite finished.’

She opened the privy door with a shaking hand and stood staring up at the Prime Minister. He looked back at her, taller than ever and impossibly elegant in his close-fitting frock coat and high-collared shirt. His waistcoat and cravat were the exact silver-blue of his eyes. The look in those eyes was both amused and sympathetic, and Charlie felt herself blush carrot-red to the roots of her hair. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

He shook his head. ‘I know you had no intention of eavesdropping. It’s unfortunate that you overheard that particular conversation. Try to erase it from your mind.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘And now, to business—’

‘Please, Mr Windlass!’

He paused, raised an inquiring eyebrow.

‘My mother! Have you found out anything?’

‘It’s early days, Charlie.’ His smile was kind. ‘I’ve no news for you yet, but I promise: I will find her. I am not in the habit of giving up.’ He guided her to a chair and bent to open a drawer in his desk.

‘Forgive me for starving you, Your Highness, but I want to know how you got on with your lessons.’ Alistair Windlass held out the tin of biscuits. ‘Please, take some. You’ve worked hard this morning, I imagine, and I always find that thinking makes me hungry.’

Charlie scooped up three biscuits. The ends of her fingernails were black with grime. Windlass’s own fingernails, she noticed, were spotless. The Prime
Minister sat on the end of his desk and crossed his arms. He raised his eyebrows. ‘And?’

She paused in mid-bite. He smiled encouragingly. She decided to tell the truth. ‘I like Mathematics. But I’m sure History ought to be more than lists of dates. And I
hate
Etiquette – it’s stupid! It’s ridiculous to have rules about when to sit or stand or how to hold your knife and fork!’

He gazed at her, so solemn she knew he was smiling inside. ‘I sympathise,’ he said. ‘But I wonder if you understand why I have arranged these lessons? And why I expect you to work hard at them?’