The Mystery of Wickworth Manor (2 page)

Suddenly, he felt foolish. Why hadn’t he asked someone where to go? Why hadn’t he just taken a deep breath and forced himself to talk to someone? He pressed his hand to his chest; the ache was still there. Everyone had just assumed he was with someone else, but he wasn’t, he was on his own. He wasn’t at Northdene School any more. He pushed the thought away. He wasn’t going to stand here feeling sorry for himself.

He grabbed his suitcase and marched up the sweeping staircase; the dorms must be up there. A grandfather clock ticked loudly; behind a closed door someone shouted. He walked on, following the stairs up and up and up. The staircase narrowed at each landing, but sounds came from behind every door. He just needed somewhere quiet; a room with no one in it where he could collect his thoughts. Finally he found himself at the top of the house. The ceiling sloped towards the eaves, sunlight poured in through dormer windows and dust motes danced in the warmth.

A door slammed open and a blonde girl tumbled out. ‘Oh,’ she said, stopping abruptly. ‘It’s you.’

Curtis frowned. ‘Do I know you?’

‘I’m Paige. Do you know your aura is red and swirly? That’s not good, you know.’

‘My aura?’ Curtis asked.

‘I’m psychic. Well, training to be.’

‘There’s no such thing.’

‘Fine, Curtis Okafor, suit yourself.’

Curtis’s eyes opened wide. How did she know his name? She
couldn’t
be psychic. The idea was ridiculous.

‘Ha! Your face! Don’t worry, your name’s written on your suitcase label.’ The girl grinned. ‘We’re meant to be in the hall. You coming?’

Curtis opened his mouth, but no words came out.

She shrugged. ‘Doing a goldfish impression? Fine. You’re a bit weird, you know that?’ She stepped past him and headed for the stairs. Was she giggling?

The psychic thought
he
was weird.

This place was
nothing
like Northdene.

And yet, there was something about the way the light fell across the old floorboards; something about the smell of warm plaster walls and food cooking floors below that made this part of the house feel safe.

Curtis followed the corridor to the end, right to the last door. If this room was empty, he was staying here.

He turned the handle and stepped inside.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Heavy curtains were pulled across the window. Slowly, the dark shapes and shadows turned into objects: a bank of filing cabinets, spilling paper; chairs stacked haphazardly, their legs sticking out like broken twigs; a cupboard with a door missing and, against one wall, an old bed. It wasn’t a bedroom, it was a room where people dumped the things they didn’t need any more. Curtis smiled, without humour.

This would suit him fine.

He could stay here and hide and not have to speak to anyone or explain anything to strangers. He could stay here and eat the biscuits in his suitcase and drink rainwater. He could sleep for seven days and when Mum came to collect him he would tell her what a brilliant time he’d had and they could drive home again in silence.

Curtis kicked off his shoes and fell back on to the bed.

It made a horrible crunching sound.

Curtis pressed his fingertips to his eyelids. Had he really just broken an antique bed? He was pretty certain that he had.

He opened his eyes and rolled off. He’d better take a look at the damage.

Underneath the bed it was dark and cluttered with yet more junk: hatboxes, old shoes, even a broken doll. A plank of wood lolled down from the frame, its edge jagged with splinters. That must be what he’d heard snap.

Curtis reached under the bed gingerly and pressed up against the plank. It waggled like a broken bone. He stretched as far as he could; his shoulder ached with the effort. He tried to ease the wood back into place, but it wouldn’t realign. Something was jamming it. With his fingers outstretched he could just about touch whatever it was in the way of the plank.

It felt rough – maybe some kind of fabric? It had a square edge, covered in heavy cloth; it felt like an elbow in a sling. He grabbed the edge and tugged. It came loose. A few sharp yanks pulled it away from the bed frame. He sat back on his heels and pulled it clear of the bed.

He unwrapped the cloth. And gasped.

It was a painting, about half a metre high and a bit less wide. He stood up and pulled the curtain a little until a puddle of light fell on to the canvas. A pair of eyes stared at him from inside the gilt frame. The eyes were dark and ferocious. They belonged to a boy with cropped hair and dark skin. He was wearing a bright red coat – some kind of servant’s uniform, maybe? Though the boy didn’t really look old enough to have a job; he looked about twelve or thirteen. The red coat had bright gold buttons, each one decorated with a map of the world, like tiny, gleaming globes. But it was the eyes that held Curtis’s attention. Angry eyes, lost eyes, frightened eyes. Eyes that seemed to be looking at him as much as he was looking at them.

Chapter 3

The welcome speeches were Boredom, Dull Street, Yawnsville. Miss Brown told them to behave; teachers from the other schools told them to behave; the owner of Wickworth Manor told them to behave. Paige rolled her eyes at Sal and Jo; they both giggled.

Then Miss Brown totally ruined everything.

‘You will be working in groups,’ she said, ‘and you’ll be assigned a partner within your group for the duration of the week. That way you’ll get to know each other better. And therefore, the transition to senior school might not be so mortally terrifying. The groups are arranged alphabetically, by surname.’

Saleema Bibi’s and Joanne Cartwright’s names were called out in the first group.

Paige looked at Sal and Jo in horror. The two of
them
were together while
she
was lumped in with all the Oates and Osbournes at the other end of the alphabet.

‘Please, Miss,’ she said to Miss Brown moments later. ‘It’s not fair. I don’t need to meet anyone else. I’ve got Sal and Jo. They’re my mates.’

Miss Brown peered over her clipboard. ‘You are here to make new friends, Paige. What would be the point of keeping all the schools separate, hmm?’

‘I don’t mind about other schools being here. So long as I’m with Sal and Jo.’

‘Well, you’ll just have to struggle on like the rest of us, Paige. Grin and bear it. It’s only for seven days. You’ll see them in the evenings.’

Paige glared as the first group was led out of the hall.

Her own group, the ‘O’s to ‘S’s, were gathering together. She knew a few of them from Friar’s Street and a couple more from around the estate. But none of them were Sal or Jo.

‘Now,’ Miss Brown said, ‘you’re with one of the other teachers this week. Mr Appleton. Follow him and find your partner.’

‘Who’s my partner?’ Paige’s voice sounded sulky, even to herself.

Miss Brown looked at her clipboard. ‘Curtis Okafor. Go and join your group.’ Mr Appleton vaguely counted heads. ‘Is this everyone?’ he asked mildly.

Paige stuck up her hand. ‘No. My partner’s not here. I think he’s lost.’

‘Ah,’ Mr Appleton sighed. ‘Waifs and strays already? Well, go and see if you can find her –’

‘Him,’ Paige interrupted.

‘– and bring her back. Meet the group in Art.’

Paige was about to say that she didn’t know where Art was, but Mr Appleton was already leading the group out.

Fine.

She would find the stupid boy and she would find the stupid Art class. And then she would talk to Miss Brown about swapping groups.

Paige stomped along the corridor that led back to the entrance hall. She sprinted up the huge staircase. Mum always said that the best place to look for something was where you left it. He’d been hanging around the top floor earlier. With any luck, he’d still be there.

Chapter 4

Curtis propped the painting up against the sturdy wood of the headboard and opened the curtains a fraction more. Now the lustrous shine on the oil paints was clearer, brighter. He sat at the end of the bed, with his knees drawn up to his chin. The painting wasn’t signed, but the year had been painted in the bottom right corner – 1805. He let his eyes roam over the surface, noticing the gleam of a button, the weave of the fabric, the crinkle of hair.

Who was this boy?

What had a black boy been doing here in 1805?

Were there even black people in Britain that long ago? Jane Austen was around then and there weren’t any in her books. Not that he’d read them, only seen adaptations on television, but still.

Curtis felt interested in something for the first time in a long time. The ache in his chest seemed to ease a little.

Suddenly, the door banged open behind him. He jumped, then spun round on the bed to see who had opened it.

A girl flounced in. The psychic. Even in his head the word sounded ludicrous. He frowned.

‘Here you are!’ she said.

Curtis just stared at her. What was her name? Poppy? Pippa? No, Paige, that was it.

‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she said. ‘You’ve got Art with Mr Appleton. Why aren’t you there? You’ll need to find a new partner, by the way. I won’t be staying. Is this your room? This isn’t a bedroom. It’s full of junk. They didn’t put you in here, did they? That’s a bit mean of them.’

Curtis wasn’t sure which question to answer. So he didn’t answer any of them.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Paige came over to the bed. ‘What are you doing up here anyway?’ Her eyes flicked around the room: bed, window, him, bed – like a flea hopping through a pack of dogs. Then they rested on the painting.

She whistled softly. ‘Who is that?’

There was a pause. She appeared to be giving him a chance to speak. ‘I’m not sure. I just found it,’ Curtis said. He moved between Paige and the painting, blocking her view. ‘
I
found it,’ he repeated.

‘All right. Keep your hair on.’ She stepped to the right and reached around him. Her fingers stretched towards the painting. She was going to touch the canvas.

‘Wait!’ Curtis said.

BANG!

Both their heads whipped towards the source of the noise. A broom had clattered to the ground, hitting the side of a filing cabinet on its way down.

‘Oh,’ Paige said softly, looking first at Curtis, then back at the painting. ‘Oh, oh, oh! I bet I know who this is.’

‘You do?’

Paige’s voice dropped to a sibilant whisper. ‘This is the Wickworth Boy.’

‘Who?’

‘You don’t know about the Wickworth Boy?’

‘No.’

‘Well, budge up and I’ll tell you.’ Paige edged on to the bed, forcing him to move up. She leaned in close; her green eyes were open so wide that he could see the whites around her irises. ‘My cousin Chantelle came here two years ago, when she was in Year 6,’ Paige said. ‘She heard all about him and she told me and Sal and Jo. When Sal heard she almost refused to come. Took us ages to persuade her.

‘Anyway. Once, a long time ago, there was a servant at Wickworth Manor. A boy. And the family who lived here then had a kind and beautiful daughter. Well, the servant boy fell in love with the daughter. And he was so handsome that she fell in love with him right back. They met in secret. But one day her father found out. He was furious. Steaming. He packed his daughter off to a nunnery. Then, he took the servant boy to the dungeon. And that boy was never seen
alive
again. His ghost walks the corridors of the manor, searching for the girl he lost.’ Paige sat back, a wicked grin on her face.