Goodly and Grave 3-Book Story Collection

CHAPTER TEN

TONGUE-TIED

B ang!

The door slammed shut behind Lucy, leaving her in darkness so deep and black that it seemed to press against her. She was fighting down a scream when one by one seven small candles set in curly metal wall-holders flickered into life.

Beneath each candle stood a Mr Paige.

Bewildered, Lucy looked back at the door she’d come through. It was still firmly shut.

The Mr Paiges smiled. “Don’t be afraid. Imparting knowledge can be tiring; spreading the load helps,” they said together. “What would you like to know?”

“How does magic work exactly?” Lucy asked.

“Much depends on the skill of the magician.”

“You mean whether they’re good at magic or not?”

“Not quite. Most magicians have one or two particular abilities; a few may have more, although that is very unusual. The magic a magician can perform will depend on the skills they possess.”

“I see.” Lucy pretended to study her fingernails. “And can things be magical? Objects?”

“Yes, there are some who are able to imbue inanimate objects with magic.”

“And how would a person know if an … inanimate object was imbued with magic?”

“Oh, that’s very complicated. First, it would depend on whether a person could see magic. Non-magicians can’t usually detect magic, although some may glimpse magic at the periphery of their consciousness.”

Lucy frowned. “Pardon?”

The Mr Paiges smiled. “It means ordinary people sometimes see magic happening out of the corner of their eye.”

Lucy opened her mouth to ask a million more questions. But the candles in their wall holders began to burn low and the Mr Paiges were fading too.

“This is as much as we can tell you today. We have to be careful. This is all very new to you. Too much information might make your brain explode with the strain. That would be rather messy,” Mr Paige said, his voice growing fainter and fainter.

“No, please. I need to know more, much more! I can see you and you’re magical, aren’t you? All this is magical. But I’m seeing it right in front of me, not out of the corner of my eye. Why?”

It was too late. All the candles guttered out and the Mr Paiges vanished. The dark pressed around Lucy again. She felt dizzy and sick. When she turned to go back through the door she couldn’t find it. Confused and frightened, she stumbled around, banging into things that it was too dark to see.

Something snuffled and gurgled.

Lucy backed away from the noise, wondering what horrible monster was lurking in the dark with her. She tripped over something and crashed to the floor.

The snuffling and gurgling stopped and a peeved voice said, “For pity’s sake, Goodly, some of us are trying to sleep, you know.”

The next day, which was a Sunday, when Lucy had fulfilled her animal duties and eaten lunch with the other servants, she found she had some unexpected free time. Lord Grave was out and everyone else was occupied. Mrs Crawley was having an afternoon nap. Violet and Vonk were trimming the animal-shaped topiary (Violet was wearing one of Vonk’s spare gardening hats). Becky was deep in the latest edition of the Penny.

Lucy kept wondering whether any of her fellow servants knew what was going on. But she had no way of telling and so decided it was safest to keep her suspicions to herself for now.

She decided to take the opportunity to do some detective work. Although she knew a little more about magic, thanks to her library trip, she was still no wiser as to the magical object the Raven wanted her to find. But she could at least do her best to investigate the mystery of the missing children. Perhaps she could find evidence of Lord Grave’s involvement and what he and Ma’am were doing with the children they stole. Then she could go to the police once she had escaped from her predicament and report what she knew.

She started her investigations by ‘borrowing’ back copies of the Penny Dreadful, which Becky kept under her bed. Lucy read every single article she could find about the disappearances. And it wasn’t long before she noted that several of the reports mentioned that a black carriage had been seen near the scene of many of the crimes.

Although this ruled out Lord Grave’s carriage, which was a silvery-grey colour, – what about Lady Sibyl’s black carriage? The articles didn’t mention flying horses, of course, but perhaps Lady Sibyl had been using normal horses at the time. That made sense. A child snatcher wouldn’t want to draw attention to themselves.

Luckily for Lucy, although Lord Percy and the Beguildy twins had left Grave Hall that morning, Lady Sibyl was staying an extra night. So Lucy hurried down to the carriage house, which was next to the stables. She checked to make sure none of the coachmen were around and then sneaked inside.

Lady Sybil’s black carriage was parked next to Lord Grave’s. Lucy walked slowly around it. Lady Sibyl’s coachman must have cleaned it recently because it gleamed and the wheels were mud-free.

Perhaps an attempt to remove any incriminating evidence?

Interesting.

Lucy tried one of the doors, expecting it to be locked. But it opened, so she climbed in. The leather seats smelled of polish and everything was as spotless inside as out. Not a clue to be seen. She was about to climb out again when she noticed a small corner of white poking out from between the rear-seat cushions. Lucy pulled it out. It was a cotton handkerchief with the initials C. S. embroidered in pink silk on one of the corners.

At first, Lucy decided that the handkerchief was probably just one of Lady Sibyl’s. Even though the initials weren’t quite right, it could be that Sibyl wasn’t Lady Sibyl’s first name. Sometimes people preferred to use their middle or last name instead of their first name, didn’t they? She could be called something like Catherine Sibyl.

Feeling rather disappointed, Lucy was about to shove the handkerchief back where she found it, when she remembered something – the name of one of the missing children she’d read about in the Penny.

Claire Small.

Lucy excitedly examined the handkerchief more closely. It was made of plain cotton. No lace. Nothing fancy apart from the embroidered initials. Not the sort of handkerchief a wealthy and fashionable aristocrat would bother with. Lucy carefully folded the handkerchief and put it in her jacket pocket before climbing back out of the carriage. She was eager to visit the raven again and share this clue with him.

But someone was waiting for her at the door to the carriage house.

Or rather two someones.

One was a giraffe. The other was a small, furry, long-nosed animal of a kind Lucy had never seen before.

There shouldn’t be too much to fear from a giraffe, Lucy told herself. Being a vegetarian animal, it wasn’t likely to eat her. And the giraffe’s companion didn’t seem exactly menacing. In fact, it was rather cute.

Lucy decided to take the offensive.

“What are you doing here?” she said in a firm voice. “Have you escaped from the wildlife park? Naughty things. You should get back there right away! Shoo! Be off with you!”

Lucy waved her arms about.

The two animals ignored her. The giraffe glanced down at the long-nosed creature and the long-nosed creature looked up at the giraffe.

The giraffe’s left ear twitched.

The long-nosed creature scampered towards Lucy. She tried to dodge out of its path, but she was too slow. An impossibly long tongue shot out of the creature’s narrow snout and wrapped itself round Lucy’s ankle, bringing her crashing to the floor of the carriage house. With Lucy incapacitated, the giraffe lolloped over to her, bent its never-ending neck, and began worrying at Lucy’s pocket. The pocket tore and the giraffe snatched the handkerchief.

“Please. Please give it back to me. You don’t understand!” Lucy tried to stand, but the tongue remained firmly entwined round her ankle.

The giraffe turned and headed out of the carriage house, carrying the handkerchief in its mouth. The long-nosed creature reclaimed its tongue from Lucy’s ankle and scuttled off too, making a squeaking noise as it went, almost as though it was giggling.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE SMELL OF A SPY

Lucy’s mind churned all through supper. She barely noticed what she was eating, much to Mrs Crawley’s disappointment.

“No thoughts on my cabbage, marmalade and pickled onion casserole?” she asked sadly.

“Um, it was very … piquant,” Lucy said.

As Lord Grave had decided to dine out with Lady Sibyl, there was less work that evening than usual. Lucy grabbed the chance to sneak away and pay another visit to the raven to report her findings. But she’d just set off down the east wing corridor towards the Room of Curiosities when a pungent whiff made her eyes water. She turned round. Smell was ambling along behind her.

“Why are you following me? Go away!” she said, clapping her hands.

Smell sat down and began washing one of his back legs. Lucy paused. She really didn’t want the cat to see what she was up to. It seemed ridiculous, but it felt almost as if he was spying on her. Perhaps she was wrong about the giraffe and its friend being harmless? Perhaps all the animals here were spies, absurd as that seemed.

Lucy dug into her apron pocket and found a piece of cake she’d reluctantly agreed to taste-test yesterday for Mrs Crawley. Lemon and beef sponge with curried icing. Lucy had only pretended to eat and enjoy it before slipping it into her pocket. She’d meant to throw it away later, but then had forgotten all about it. Until now. The cake was more doughy than spongy, so she rolled it into a ball and sent it spinning across the floor. It trundled under a cabinet. Smell spotted the not-so-delicious morsel immediately, scooted over to the cabinet and began trying to squeeze his head underneath it. When he found his head wouldn’t fit, he tried his paw instead. Lucy ran off while he wasn’t looking, hastily tickled Lord Grave’s great-grandmother’s chins and once again let herself into the Room of Curiosities.

“Have you found a magical object?” the raven said, once she had brought him to life again.

“How lovely to see you too. No, not yet. I don’t even know what I’m looking for and you can’t tell me. But I have found a few things out as well as something to prove Lord Grave and his friends are guilty.” She explained about the library, and about Turner and Paige, and about the handkerchief she’d found.

“Do you have the handkerchief?” the raven asked anxiously.

“No. I … er … lost it,” Lucy said, too embarrassed to admit that a giraffe and a creature with a talented tongue had managed to outwit her.

“And what about Ma’am? Have you identified her yet?” the raven said, beginning to sound anxious.

“No,” Lucy said, feeling rather inadequate.

The raven clicked his beak impatiently. “None of this is very helpful. And it’s most disappointing you haven’t found an object that could help us. I thought you were a moderately bright young person.”

Lucy’s cheeks grew warm. “Oh well. Maybe I’ll just put you back in your case then. If you’re so very marvellous I’m sure you can get yourself out of the mess you’re in.”

The raven hastily backtracked. “My apologies. All this is very new to you. I shouldn’t expect too much too soon. After all, you’ve only experienced magic in the last few days.”

“Actually, you’re very wrong about that,” Lucy said, enjoying the look of surprise on the raven’s face. At least she thought he looked surprised. His beak was certainly hanging open. She told the raven about the card she’d stolen from Lady Red and what it could do. When she got to the part about Mrs Milligan’s Gambling Den and Lord Grave taking her from her parents, her throat went tight and she had to stop speaking.

“Well, come on, tell me more. The woman you stole the card from. What did she look like?”

“She had long shiny red hair. She was beautiful. But her eyes …”

“What about them?”

“Just for a few seconds, it was as though they were made of fire. Like Catherine wheels.” Lucy shuddered at the memory.

“Amethyst,” the raven muttered.

“No, orangey-red, like fire. Isn’t amethyst more of a purple colour?”

“Yes, I know!” the raven snapped.

“Well, pardon me! Maybe you should find someone else to help you after all. I don’t have to put up with this, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Lucy. It’s the strain. Can you imagine what it’s been like for me, imprisoned in this contraption for years on end? It would make anyone waspish. Now let’s take stock,” the raven said, suddenly sounding a lot more cheerful. “You have access to Grave’s library. That’s good. In fact … in fact I think you may have found an object to help us after all!”

“I have? And it’ll help the other children too?” Lucy said eagerly.

“Naturally. Kill three birds with one stone, as they say,” the raven cawed at his own joke.

Lucy smiled politely, silently urging him to get on with it.

“Alas, I cannot tell you what that object is,” the raven said, sounding somewhat deflated again.

Lucy huffed in exasperation and kicked the side of the raven’s plinth. A cloud of dust rose up, making her cough. She felt most dejected. But the raven began hopping about excitedly.

“Lucy, you’re a genius!” he cried, and hopped off the plinth into the patch of dust. He began writing something in it with his beak.

Find the Wish Book.

Lucy stared at what the raven had written.

“You can read, I take it?” the raven snapped, dust drifting from his beak.

“Yes, of course I can! But there aren’t any actual books in the library. I told you that. All the books are inside Mr Paige’s head.” Lucy tapped her own skull to illustrate, in case the raven hadn’t properly understood.

“No books at all? Think! Think!”

Lucy thought. And then remembered. “There were some books on a shelf. Maybe four. They were made of metal, I think. Is the Wish Book one of them?”

“Yes!”

“So I need to steal it? But how?” Lucy asked.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said the raven.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

And the very next day, when she was baking inside her armour while sweeping up Bathsheba’s dirty straw (the panther was busy tearing away at several roast chickens Lucy had given her), she did think of something. What she thought of was that she’d had enough.

Enough of the weird goings-on at Grave Hall.

Enough of Becky Bone calling her names.

Enough of the raven bossing her around.

Enough of Lord Grave and his threats.

Enough of worrying about her parents and waiting for them to find a way to rescue her.

And definitely enough of having to muck out Bathsheba’s hut while dressed in a suit of armour.

Surely she could find a way of escaping on her own without having to steal the Wish Book? And once she did, she could get help for the stolen children and the raven too. There was a risk that Lord Grave might follow up on his threat to report her for cheating at cards. But would he really risk drawing attention to himself by kicking up trouble? Someone might discover his dastardly crimes.

Lucy swept Bathsheba’s straw more furiously, trying to think it all out. Bathsheba, who was in a friendly mood today, batted at Lucy’s broom in a manner more suited to a kitten than a potentially lethal panther.

“Oh, come on, get out of the way!” Lucy gently shoved Bathsheba aside. Bathsheba not so gently nipped Lucy’s fingers, but the gauntlets Lucy wore as part of her armour prevented any real damage.

Armour.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

She could go now. Right at this very moment. Run through the wildlife park to the gates she’d come through in Lord Grave’s carriage that first day. She was sure she’d be able to climb over them. And her armour would protect her from attack by Bathsheba or any of the other animals.

She flung aside her broom and ran out of the hut. And kept running. Or rather kept waddling. Her armour was heavy, a little rusty and not conducive to moving at speed. She rattled and squeaked past the lake, where one of the elephants was enjoying a drink. The elephant turned at the sound of Lucy’s armour. It had very long and very sharp tusks.

Nothing to worry about, elephants are harmless unless you get in the way of their feet, Lucy told herself and waddled on. But she quickly found she couldn’t waddle any further. Because the elephant was standing in front of her, like a grey, living mountain. How had it moved so quickly?

Lucy squinted up at the elephant.

The elephant glared down at Lucy.

Its tusks glinted in the sunlight.

“Um, don’t worry. No need to move – I’ll go around you,” Lucy said.

She moved to her left.

So did the elephant.

She moved to her right.

So did the elephant.

Lucy and the elephant repeated this dance several times. Then the elephant seemed to get bored. It snorted, bent its great grey head and then hooked one of its tusks through the gap in Lucy’s armour where the sleeve was attached to the shoulder plate.

The elephant lifted Lucy high into the air. Lucy squealed and squirmed but the elephant took no notice. Ears and trunk flapping, it thundered back the way Lucy had come. It reached the iron fence, which separated the animals from the rest of Grave Hall, and lowered her over it, dropping her the last few feet. Lucy landed with a thud that rattled her armour and her teeth. The armour protected her from breaking any bones, but the fall still hurt. She lay on the ground, trying not to cry from pain, humiliation and utter despair. Now there could be no doubting that she was being thwarted by Grave Hall’s animal residents. That elephant had deliberately foiled her escape attempt. It was impossible, but the impossible seemed to happen on a daily basis at Grave Hall.

When she’d recovered a little, Lucy limped back towards the house, comforting herself with the thought that at least no one had witnessed her embarrassing defeat. When she reached the kitchen garden, she found Mrs Crawley there, sitting in a striped deckchair, drinking out of a large tankard. Her frock was hoisted up to her knees, showing her hairy legs. She was wearing a pair of sandals, which her equally hairy toes poked out of. Whatever was in the tankard smelled almost as bad as Smell had when he’d overindulged on devilled kidneys a few days ago.

“Ah, Lucy!” she said. “Would you like a sip?”

“No, thanks. What is it, liquidised dung or something?”

Mrs Crawley tittered. “It’s the first batch of my home-brewed ale. I admit it has a certain pungency to it. Probably due to a small sprinkling of my Extra Violent Mustard Mix that I added during the brewing process. I thought I’d have a quick taste to check if it’s ready and gather my strength before starting on the dinner. I’ll need some help as little Violet hasn’t turned up for work today. Very unlike her. She must be ill. Would you mind serving his Lordship’s afternoon tea once you’ve taken your armour off? Here, let me give you a hand.”

As Mrs Crawley began unbuckling the armour, Lucy wondered desperately if the housekeeper-cum-cook knew what was really going on at Grave Hall? Surely not? She so wanted to confide in Mrs Crawley. But perhaps it would be too risky. Lucy reluctantly decided that her best bet was to bide her time.

A quarter of an hour later, Lucy was standing outside Lord Grave’s study holding a tray of tea things. She was about to knock when she heard raised voices.

“’Ow many more children is it going to take, Grave? You need to do something,” said a gruff voice.

Lucy trembled. The cup on her tray rattled against the teapot.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Lord Grave snapped.

“You blooming well do. Ma’am thinks that you—”

“I don’t need to be told what Ma’am does or doesn’t think! Concentrate on what you’re supposed to be doing, but do it better. Or I might have a quiet word with Ma’am about you. Stop getting distracted.”

“Can’t ’elp it. It’s my nature now.”

“A feeble excuse. I think—”

Crash!

Lucy had been so intent on listening to this tense exchange between Lord Grave and what must be one of the dreaded Ma’am’s henchmen that she’d let her tray tilt and the teacup had smashed to the floor.

Lord Grave flung open the door, frowning bushily.

“I-I was bringing you your tea,” said Lucy.

“Go in, put it on the table.”

“But I broke the cup.”

“Leave it, I’ll deal with it.” Lord Grave bent down and began picking up the shards of china.

Lucy stepped into the drawing room.

There was no one else there.

She busied herself setting out the teapot and the milk jug, looking around to see if there was someone hiding under the table or behind the sofa. But she couldn’t see anyone. There was a whiff though. A whiff that made her wrinkle her nose in disgust.

“Violet usually brings me my tea. Where is she?” Lord Grave demanded, placing the teacup she had dropped on to the table.

The teacup was whole again.

Lucy stared at the cup and then up at Lord Grave.

“She’s ill, we think,” she muttered.

“You think? What’s wrong with her?”