Witch Week (21 page)

Nobody said anything.

“I think we shall be going now,” Chrestomanci said, “if you would all hold one another’s hands again, please.” Wordlessly, they all held out hands and took hold. Chrestomanci took hold of Brian’s, but, before he took hold of Estelle’s in the other hand, he took the old lady’s veined and knobby hand and kissed it. The old lady was delighted. She winked excitedly at Nan over Chrestomanci’s smooth head. Nan did not even feel up to smiling back. “Lead the way, Estelle,” Chrestomanci said, straightening up and taking Estelle’s hand. They found themselves invisible again. And, the same instant, they were outside in the street.

Estelle set off toward Larwood House. If it had been anybody else but Estelle in the lead, Charles thought, they might have thought of taking the line of them somewhere else—anywhere else—because Chrestomanci would not know. But Estelle led them straight to school, and everyone else shuffled after, too crushed and nervous to do anything else. Brian was the only one who protested. Whenever there were no people about, his voice could be heard saying that it wasn’t
fair.
“What did you girls have to fetch him for?” he kept saying.

By the time they were through the school gates and shuffling up the drive, Brian gave up protesting. Estelle led them to the main door, the grand one, which was only used for parents or visitors like Lord Mulke. There were two police cars parked on the gravel beside it, but they were empty and there was no one about.

Here, in a sharp scuffling of gravel, Brian made a determined effort to run away. To judge by the sounds, and by the way Estelle came feeling her way along Nirupam and Nan, Chrestomanci was after Brian like a shot. Three thumps, and a scatter of small stones, and Chrestomanci suddenly reappeared, beside the nearest police car. He seemed to be on his own, but his right arm was stiffly bent and jerking a little, as the invisible Brian writhed on the end of it.

“I do advise you all to keep quite close to me,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “You will only be invisible within ten yards of me.”

“I can make myself invisible,” Brian’s voice said, from beside Chrestomanci’s dove-gray elbow. “I’m a witch too.”

“Quite probably,” Chrestomanci agreed. “But I am not a witch, as it happens. I am an enchanter. And, among other differences, an enchanter is ten times as strong as a witch. Who is at the end of the line now? Charles. Charles, will you be good enough to walk up the steps to the door and ring the bell?”

Charles trudged forward, towing the others behind him, and rang the bell. There seemed nothing else to do.

The door was opened almost at once by the school secretary. Chrestomanci stood there, apparently alone, with his dove-gray suit quite unruffled and not a hair out of place, smiling pleasantly at the secretary. It was hard to believe that he had Brian gripped in one hand and Estelle clinging to the other, and three more people crowded uncomfortably around him. He bowed slightly.

“Name of Chant,” he said. “I believe you were expecting me. I’m the inquisitor.”

T
HE SCHOOL SECRETARY
dissolved into dither. She gushed. It was just as well. Otherwise she might have heard five gasps out of the air around Chrestomanci.

“Oh,
do
come in, inquisitor,” the secretary gushed. “Miss Cadwallader is expecting you. And I’m awfully sorry—we seem to have got your name wrong. We were told to expect a Mr. Littleton.”

“Quite right,” Chrestomanci said blandly. “Littleton is the regional inquisitor. But head office decided the matter was too grave to be merely regional. I’m the divisional inquisitor.”

“Oh!” said the secretary, and seemed quite overawed. She ushered Chrestomanci in and through the tiled hall. Chrestomanci stepped after her, slow and stately, in a way that allowed plenty of time for everyone to squeeze around him into the hall and tiptoe beside him across the tiles. The secretary threw wide the door to Miss Cadwallader’s study. “Mr. Chant, Miss Cadwallader. The divisional inquisitor.” Chrestomanci went into the study even more slowly, lugging Brian and pulling Estelle. Nan and Nirupam squeezed after, and Charles just got in too by jamming himself against the doorpost as the secretary backed reverently out. He did not want to be left outside the circle of invisibility.

Miss Cadwallader sprang forward in a quite unusual flutter and shook hands with Chrestomanci. The rest of them heard Brian thump away sideways as Chrestomanci let go of him. “Oh, good morning, inquisitor!”

“Morning, morning,” said Chrestomanci. He seemed to have gone vague again. He looked absently around the room while he was shaking hands. “Nice place you have here, Miss—er—Cudwollander.”

This was true. Perhaps on the grounds that she had to persuade government officials and parents that Larwood House was a really good school, Miss Cadwallader had surrounded herself in luxury. Her carpet was like deep crimson grass. Her chairs were purple clouds of softness. She had marble statues on her mantelpiece and large gilt frames around her hundred or so pictures. She had a cocktail cabinet with a little refrigerator built into it and a coffeemaker on top. Her hi-fi and tape deck took up most of one wall. Charles looked yearningly at her vast television with a crinoline doll on top. It seemed years since he had watched any television. Nan gazed at the wall of bright new books. Most of them seemed to be mystery stories. She would have loved to have a closer look at them, but she did not dare let go of Nirupam or Charles in case she never found them again.

“I’m so glad you approve, inquisitor,” fluttered Miss Cadwallader. “My room is entirely at your disposal, if you wish to use it to interview children in. I take it that you will need to interview some of the children in 6B?”

“All the children in 6B,” Chrestomanci said gravely, “and probably all their teachers too.” Miss Cadwallader looked thoroughly dismayed by this. “I shall expect to interview everyone in the school before I’m through,” Chrestomanci went on. “I shall stay here for as long as it takes—weeks, if necessary—to get to the bottom of this matter.”

By this time, Miss Cadwallader was distinctly pale. She clasped her hands nervously. “Are you sure it’s
that
serious, inquisitor? It
is
only a boy in 6B who disappeared in the night. His father happens to be one of our teachers here, which is really why we’re so concerned. I know you were told that the boy left a large number of notes accusing a witch of abducting him, but the police have telephoned since to say they have found a camp in the forest with the boy’s scent on it. Don’t you think the whole thing could be cleared up quite easily and quickly?”

Chrestomanci gravely shook his head. “I have been kept abreast of the facts too, Miss—er—Kidwelly. The boy has still not turned up, has he? One can’t be too careful in a case like this. I think someone in 6B knows more about this than you think.”

Up to now, everyone listening had been feeling more and more relieved. If Miss Cadwallader had known there were four other people missing besides Brian, she would surely have said so. But their feelings changed at what Miss Cadwallader said next.

“You must interview a girl called Theresa Mullett straightaway, inquisitor, and I think you will find that the matter will be cleared up at once. Theresa is one of our
good
girls. She came to me during break and told me that the witch is almost certainly a child called Dulcinea Pilgrim. Dulcinea is
not
one of our good girls, inquisitor, I’m sorry to say. Some of her journal entries have been very free-spoken and disaffected. She questions everything and makes jokes about serious matters. If you like, I can send for Dulcinea’s journal and you can see for yourself.”

“I shall read all the journals in 6B,” said Chrestomanci, “in good time. But is this all you have to go on, Miss—er—Collander? I can’t find a girl a witch simply on hearsay and a few jokes. It’s not professional. Have you no other suspects? Teachers, for instance—”

“Teachers here are all above suspicion, inquisitor.” Miss Cadwallader said this very firmly, although her voice was a little shrill. “But 6B as a class are not. It is a sad fact, inquisitor, in a school like this, that a number of children come to us as witch-orphans, having had one or both parents burned. There are an unusual number of these in 6B. I would pick out, for your immediate attention, Nirupam Singh, who had a brother burned, Estelle Green, whose mother is in prison for helping witches escape, and a boy called Charles Morgan, who is almost as undesirable as the Pilgrim girl.”

“Dear me! What a poisonous state of affairs!” said Chrestomanci. “I see I must get down to work at once.”

“I shall leave you this room of mine to work in then, inquisitor,” Miss Cadwallader said graciously. She seemed to have recovered from her flutter.

“Oh, I can’t possibly trouble you,” Chrestomanci said, quite as graciously. “Doesn’t your deputy head have a study I could use?”

Intense relief shone through Miss Cadwallader’s stately manner. “Yes, indeed he does, inquisitor. What an excellent idea! I shall take you to Mr. Wentworth myself, at once.”

Miss Cadwallader swept out of her room, almost too relieved to be stately. Chrestomanci located Brian as easily as if he could see him, took his arm, and swept off after her. The other four were forced to tiptoe furiously to keep up. None of them wanted to see Mr. Wentworth. In fact, after what Miss Cadwallader had just said, the one thing they all longed to do was to sneak off and run away again. But the instant they got more than ten yards away from Chrestomanci, there they would be, in riding clothes, little blue shorts, and pink balldress, for Miss Cadwallader or anyone else they passed to see. That was enough to keep them all tiptoeing hard, along the corridors and up the stairs.

Miss Cadwallader rapped on the glass of Mr. Wentworth’s study. “Come in!” said Mr. Wentworth’s voice. Miss Cadwallader threw the door open and made ushering motions to Chrestomanci. Chrestomanci nodded vaguely and once more made a slow and imposing entry, with a slight dragging noise as he pulled the resisting Brian through the doorway. That gave the other four plenty of time to slip inside past Miss Cadwallader.

“I’ll leave you with Mr. Wentworth for now, inquisitor,” Miss Cadwallader said, in the doorway. Mr. Wentworth, at that, looked up from his schedules. When he saw Chrestomanci, his face went pale, and he stood up slowly, looking thoroughly harrowed. “Mr. Wentworth,” said Miss Cadwallader, “this is Mr. Chant, who is the divisional inquisitor. Come to my study for sherry before lunch, both of you, please.” Then obviously feeling she had done enough, Miss Cadwallader shut the door and went away.

“Good morning,” Chrestomanci said politely.

“G—good morning,” said Mr. Wentworth. His hands were trembling and rustling the schedules. He swallowed, loudly. “I—I didn’t realize there were divisional inquisitors. New post, is it?”

“Oh, do you not have divisional ones?” Chrestomanci said. “What a shame. I thought it sounded so imposing.”

He nodded. Everybody was suddenly visible again. Nan, Charles, and Nirupam all tried to hide behind one another. Brian was revealed tugging crossly to get his arm loose from Chrestomanci, and Estelle was hanging on to Chrestomanci’s other hand again. She let go hurriedly and took her hard hat off. But it was quite certain that Mr. Wentworth did not notice any of these things. He backed against the window, staring from Chrestomanci to Brian, and he was more than harrowed now: he was terrified.

“What’s going on?” he said. “Brian, what have you lent yourself to?”

“Nothing,” Brian said irritably. “He isn’t an inquisitor. He’s an enchanter or something. It’s not my fault he’s here.”

“What does he want?” Mr. Wentworth said wildly. “I haven’t anything I can give him!”

“My dear sir,” said Chrestomanci, “please try and be calm. I only want your help.”

Mr. Wentworth pressed back against the window. “I don’t know what you mean!”

“Yes, you do,” Chrestomanci said pleasantly. “But let me explain. I am Chrestomanci. This is the title that goes with my post, and my job is controlling witchcraft. My world is somewhat more happily placed than yours, I believe, because witchcraft is not illegal there. In fact, this very morning I was chairing a meeting of the Walpurgis Committee, in the middle of making final arrangements for the Halloween celebrations, when I was rather suddenly summoned away by these pupils of yours—”

“Is that why you’re wearing those beautiful clothes?” Estelle asked admiringly.

Everyone winced a little, except for Chrestomanci, who seemed to think it was a perfectly reasonable question. “Well, no, to be quite honest,” he said. “I like to be well dressed, because I am always liable to be called elsewhere, the way you called me. But I have to confess that I have several times been fetched away in my dressing gown, in spite of all my care.” He looked at Mr. Wentworth again, obviously expecting him to have calmed down by now. “There are real problems with this particular call,” he said. “Your world is all wrong, in a number of ways. That’s why I would appreciate your help, sir.”

Unfortunately, Mr. Wentworth was by no means calm. “How dare you talk to me like this!” he said. “It’s pure blackmail! You’ll get no help from me!”