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THE COACHMAN AND THE STINKING BISHOP (#ulink_272e4e9f-eb2c-55ba-a410-968650d7f45d)
As Lucy and Smell entered the kitchen, Smell grew silent. This was because Violet Worthington the scullery maid was there. Both Violet and Becky were completely unaware that Lord Grave, his friends and some of his servants were magicians and so any hint of magic had to be carefully hidden from them, especially something as remarkable as a talking cat.
Lucy’s own (non-magical) pet cat Phoebe was curled up under the kitchen table. Smell was terribly taken with her and as soon as he glimpsed her, he scooted over and attempted to touch noses, as cats sometimes do when they meet each other. Sadly, Phoebe was as unimpressed as ever with Smell’s advances and very nearly took his one remaining eye out with her claws.
“Lucy, you’re just in time for a pot of tea!” boomed Mrs Crawley, who was wearing her best flowery apron. Lucy had been rather confused by Mrs Crawley the first time she had met her as the bearded cook-cum-housekeeper was actually a man. But Lucy soon became used to the fact that Lord Grave insisted on the Grave Hall cook being addressed as Mrs regardless of gender or marital status – it was simply the done thing. Lucy was also used to Mrs Crawley’s preference for frocks (They keep the nether regions cool in a hot kitchen! she often said). Lucy herself was unconventional in her clothing choices. Most girls wore dresses and curled their long hair. Lucy preferred to wear a jacket and breeches and wore her hair in a shining black bob.
“Take a seat, Lucy. You too, Violet, you deserve a break,” Mrs Crawley said.
“Thanks, Mrs Crawley.” Violet put down the huge copper pot she was scouring. Caruthers, Violet’s small stuffed woollen frog, peeped out from her apron pocket. Wherever Violet went, Caruthers went too, which was something Becky Bone teased her mercilessly about. Thankfully, Becky was running some errands in Grave Village, which meant everyone could enjoy their cups of tea without having to look at her scowling face.
There was a third person in the kitchen, sitting at the table, a young man Lucy had never seen before. He gave her a friendly wink.
“Hello,” she said uncertainly.
The man pushed his floppy black hair back from his forehead, and gazed at her very intently. Lucy felt herself blushing. The man smiled. “You’re Miss Goodly, I take it? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“This is Mr Stephen Rivers,” Mrs Crawley said.
“Oh, please, everyone just calls me Rivers!”
“He’s Lady Sibyl’s coachman,” Mrs Crawley continued, bringing over the teapot while Violet set out the cups. Thankfully, the tea seemed to be the normal everyday variety. Mrs Crawley was prone to bouts of experimental cooking and had once served Lucy fried-egg-flavour tea.
“Under-coachman, actually,” Rivers corrected. “But the head coachman has come down with a very nasty case of measles along with the rest of Lady Sibyl’s household except for me, so I’m the main man for the moment. I must say I’m rather enjoying being in charge. And I only started working for her Ladyship a couple of months ago!”
As Lady Sibyl’s coach was not an ordinary sort of coach (Lucy had seen it in action once; it was pulled by flying horses), Lucy guessed Rivers must be a magician. But of course she couldn’t mention anything about this in front of Violet.
“Rivers is going to be with us for a few days, Lucy. Poor Lady Sibyl is very worried about catching measles herself so Lord Grave has invited her to stay until the danger is past. Would you like another slice of cake, Rivers?”
“No, thank you, Mrs Crawley. I must get on; the horses need grooming,” Rivers said, getting to his feet. “I’ll see you all later.”
“He’s a lovely man, isn’t he?” Mrs Crawley said when Rivers had left. She stroked her beard thoughtfully. “I was thinking about making him a special welcome dinner. Edible dormouse with fried potatoes and sprouts stuffed with Stinking Bishop.”
“Stuffed with a stinking bishop?” Lucy said in horror, imagining that Mrs Crawley had decided to widen her repertoire to include cannibalistic cookery.
“It’s a type of cheese.” Mrs Crawley chuckled, smoothing her apron. “And I thought I’d follow it with cockroach and cherry stargazey pie for dessert. What do you think?”
“It sounds delicious, but I won’t be here I’m afraid,” Lucy said, trying her best to sound disappointed. “I have to go out with Lord Grave and we might not be back until late.”
“Oh, not to worry. I’ll save you some!” Mrs Crawley beamed.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Lucy said, hoping that she and Lord Grave would be back far too late to eat dinner. And, as it turned out, they very nearly didn’t make it back at all.
At half past six that evening, as arranged, Lucy met Lord Grave out in the grounds of Grave Hall. Because St Olaf’s was a few villages away from Grave Hall, Lucy had expected that they would go in the carriage. However, Lord Grave ushered her to a quiet part of the pristine gardens, Bathsheba loping along by his side. As they picked their way across the grass, a splashing and trumpeting came from the direction of his Lordship’s wildlife park. Lucy had been at the Hall long enough to know that this was the sound of the elephants taking their evening bath in the lake.
“Hold this for a moment please,” Lord Grave said, handing the as yet unlit lantern he was carrying to Lucy. He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a small illustrated pamphlet that he passed to Lucy, taking the lantern back off her. The pamphlet was for St Olaf’s Church fete and had a drawing of the church on the front.
“This is St Olaf’s, Lucy. Do you think you can manage it?”
“Manage what?”
“A shortcut, of course.”
As part of her magical training with Lord Grave, Lucy had been practising shortcuts, a method of travelling that very few magicians were able to perform. Lucy had found out by accident that this was something she could do when she’d had to escape from a wicked magician called Amethyst Shade. Now Lord Grave was helping her learn to control this power.
“I think I’ll be able to. Is Bathsheba coming too? Won’t she be in the way a bit?”
“I’d prefer she came with us.” Something in Lord Grave’s tone suggested that he was secretly a little worried about what they might find at St Olaf’s. This made Lucy a little worried too, but she tried not to let nerves ruin her concentration as she thoroughly studied the picture of the church. Then she closed her eyes, fixed the image firmly in her mind and imagined herself there as strongly as she could.
“Excellent,” Lord Grave said softly after a few moments.
Lucy opened her eyes. Sparks fizzled in the crisp evening air, signalling that magic was afoot. They began to join together, forming a slash, which widened into a hole. Lucy gave a quiet whoop of victory. She’d done it! St Olaf’s Church and graveyard lay on the other side of the opening. Her very first official investigation of magical crime was about to begin.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a2f6849d-4e34-5ed6-836f-3b179dc504c3)
ANGEL EYES (#ulink_a2f6849d-4e34-5ed6-836f-3b179dc504c3)
Lord Grave and Bathsheba climbed through the opening, followed by Lucy. She always found it a strange sensation to grab the rubbery edges of a shortcut as she stepped through to the other side. When the three of them were standing safely in St Olaf’s graveyard, Lucy reversed the shortcut by closing her eyes and this time imagining the opening growing smaller and smaller. Sure enough, when she reopened her eyes, the hole she’d made was shrinking rapidly to a pinpoint. There was a gust of wind, which ruffled Lucy’s hair, followed by a loud sucking noise as the hole sealed itself shut.
“So what do we do next?”
“We need to speak to that gentleman over there,” Lord Grave said. The gentleman in question was trimming the grass round the edges of the graveyard. Lord Grave strode over to him.
“Good evening, my man, are you Mr Brakespear?”
Mr Brakespear didn’t reply. He was too busy staring goggle-eyed at Bathsheba.
“That’s a … a …” he gibbered.
“Panther. Yes. Perfectly tame, I assure you. Could I ask a few questions about what happened here yesterday evening?”
“But I’ve already spoken to the parish constable!”
“Yes, of course. But we’re detectives. Different area of expertise. Would you mind explaining again what happened?”
“C-certainly,” Mr Brakespear replied, continuing to eye Bathsheba warily. “I had a busy day yesterday. I’d buried Mr Shannon and Mrs Munt in the afternoon. So I was down at the Bird in Hand having a quiet pint before going home to bed. Then one of the other regulars came in, said they’d seen light in the graveyard. So I thought I’d better have a look.”
“Do go on,” said Lord Grave.
“Someone was standing on Mr Shannon’s grave over there, digging away.” Mr Brakespear pointed to a fresh grave on the other side of the graveyard. “Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman; they were too far away. I called out to warn ’em off. Soon as they heard my voice whoever it was scarpered. When I went to check I found that Mr Shannon’s grave had a big hole in the soil. But the coffin hadn’t been touched. Reckon I disturbed the thief before they could get to it. It’s quite shook us all up. The vicar’s going to get some more mortsafes in, like that one on Mrs Munt’s grave. There’s a good offer in the Penny—”
“Most disturbing,” Lord Grave said. “Do you have any thoughts on what might be happening?”
“Well, have you read the Penny? Sir Absalom—”
“Ah yes, I’m well versed in Sir Absalom’s crackpot theories. Well, thank you for your help; we won’t keep you any longer. Oh, just a second, there’s a fly on your forehead.” Lord Grave reached out and placed the tip of his right index finger between the gravedigger’s eyebrows. Sparks crackled up the middle of his forehead, over his cap and down to the back of his head. Mr Brakespear’s eyes grew wide and unfocused. After a few seconds, Lord Grave removed his finger. The gravedigger silently turned on his heel and walked off.
“Why did you do that?” Lucy asked. “And what was it?”
“I didn’t want him remembering us, just in case. If he mentions anything to the parish constable about detectives making enquiries, it could raise awkward questions. So I tweaked him.”
“You did what?”
“Tweaked him.”
Suddenly Lucy realised what he meant. Lord Grave had tweaked the memories of the children she’d rescued from the clutches of Amethyst Shade to remove all traces of their ordeal from their minds. But until now, she’d never seen a tweak performed. It was most impressive how effortless he made it seem. She suspected it was harder than it looked.
“Can I learn how to tweak?”
“Yes, when I think you’re ready. It’s a very delicate skill you know. Multi-purpose too. You can tweak personalities as well as memories, for example. But get it wrong and you’re in dire straits. Now, let’s get on. We need something to hide behind, just in case my instincts are right and our graverobber makes a reappearance.”
“Look, we could hide behind that,” Lucy said, pointing to a statue of an angel, which stood near Mr Shannon’s grave. The statue was somewhat disturbing to look at. It was green with lichen and had holes where its eyeballs should be. However, the handy thing about the angel was that it stood on a tall, wide plinth, which could screen Lucy and Lord Grave as well as Bathsheba while affording a decent view of Mr Shannon’s grave.
The sun began to set, accompanied by the twittering of the birds roosting in the trees. As darkness fell, the birds stopped singing one by one until a robin perched on the roof of the church gave the very final chirrup of the day. After that, the sounds of the night began. Bushes rustled with unseen creatures. An owl swooped overhead before diving towards the ground. There was a high-pitched squeak, and the owl arced back into the sky, a struggling mouse clutched in its talons.
The temperature in the churchyard was rapidly dropping. Lucy shivered a little and thought longingly of the cosy kitchen at Grave Hall. Mrs Crawley often made hot milk for everyone at the end of the day, sweetened with honey from the bees that Vonk the butler looked after.
“How long do you think we should stay for?” she asked Lord Grave.
“Until sun-up if need be. Now shush, we need to keep as quiet as possible.”
A moment later, Lord Grave sneezed loudly.
“That’s not exactly keeping quiet, is it?” Lucy whispered.
“I think I’ve caught Bertie’s cold,” Lord Grave said stiffly. “Luckily, I planned ahead.” He took a small bottle from his pocket, which contained a luminous yellow liquid. He unscrewed the top and drank the contents, his whole face and even his moustache twisting in disgust. Seconds later, steam piped out of his ears, wreathing himself, Lucy, Bathsheba and the angel in luminous yellow mist.
“What is that?” Lucy whispered.
“A cold remedy. Mrs Crawley gave it to me. You know, I think it’s working!”
Thankfully, the remedy did indeed seem to work, as there was no more sneezing or coughing from Lord Grave over the course of the next two hours, by which time Lucy was on the brink of screaming with boredom. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it a moment longer, Lord Grave nudged her.
“Someone’s coming,” he said in a low voice.
Lucy peered round the side of the eyeless angel’s plinth. Sure enough, a tall man was approaching, carrying a lantern. It was impossible to see his face properly as he had a scarf wrapped round his nose and mouth and the light from the lantern cast a shadow across his eyes and forehead. He carried a spade.
“Let’s wait a few moments. See what he does,” Lord Grave whispered.
They watched as the man reached Mr Shannon’s grave. He set his lantern down and began shovelling grave dirt into the bag he had with him.
“Oh no!” Lord Grave exclaimed softly.
“What is it?” Lucy whispered back.
“The dratted cold remedy’s wearing off. I’m going to … going to …”
Lucy hesitated, wondering whether she should put her hand over Lord Grave’s nose and mouth. He might think such an action very insubordinate. But before she could decide, his Lordship let rip a violent cough combined with a ferocious sneeze. The cough and the sneeze echoed around the graveyard, waking up the sleeping birds, which chirped and chattered in alarm.
Lucy held her breath, hoping that by some miracle the man hadn’t heard the commotion. But of course he had and he swiftly picked up the half-filled bag of grave dirt and sprinted off, something falling as he ran.
As soon as the man was out of sight, Lucy and Lord Grave leaped out from behind the stone angel. Lord Grave lit the lantern they had brought with them so they could investigate the object the man had dropped.
“It’s some sort of book,” Lucy said, bending down to pick it up, but before she could do so Lord Grave grabbed her arm.
“Wait. In this business, Lucy, it’s vital to assume everything is dangerous until you’ve proved otherwise.”
Lucy could see his point. She had made the disastrous mistake of trusting magical objects before, namely a clockwork raven, which had turned out to be a wicked magician in disguise. “So how do we tell whether it’s safe to touch?”
Lord Grave took what looked like a fat silver pencil from his pocket. “This is one of Lord Percy’s contraptions. It whistles if it detects harmful magic in an object. It’s Percy’s strongest skill, you know, to—”
A grating noise interrupted Lord Grave. Bathsheba gave a low growl of warning. Before Lucy could turn to see where the noise was coming from, a great stone fist slammed down on Lord Grave’s head, flattening his top hat and sending him slumping to the ground. The plinth the eyeless angel had stood on moments before was now empty. Its former occupant stepped over Lord Grave’s prone body and lunged at Lucy, growling in a completely un-angelic manner.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_89ac95c3-1e73-5a8b-bd8a-81e04c775b41)
THE NOT SO PITILESS PREDATOR (#ulink_89ac95c3-1e73-5a8b-bd8a-81e04c775b41)
Bathsheba roared ferociously at the angel and leaped at it, her fangs and claws bared, but even these powerful weapons couldn’t damage stone. The angel shook the panther off like an irritating fly before grabbing Lucy by the collar and hauling her up until the two of them were face to face. Those awful empty eyes stared into Lucy’s and the stone lips curled into a snarl. Lucy wriggled and squirmed. The angel’s grip was slowly choking her.
The angel began clomping heavily through the grass towards the grave that had been disturbed. The robber had returned and was bending down to pick up the book he had dropped.
“Bathsheba,” Lucy managed to choke out, “attack that man – please attack!”
The panther seemed to understand Lucy’s command. She hunkered down into a crouch before launching herself at the graverobber, knocking him over. The book he’d retrieved moments before left his grasp again. This time, it flew from his hand and landed in the tangle of a nearby overgrown grave. The man had no chance to run after it: Bathsheba had pinned him to the ground in an instant.
With the man safely pinioned and the precious clue secure for now, Lucy turned her attention to escaping her stony captor’s clutches. As a first stab at gaining her freedom, Lucy poked the angel in its empty eyehole, but this made no impact whatsoever. Panic swamped Lucy as she struggled and choked in the angel’s grasp. The angel twisted the collar of her jacket so that it dug painfully into her windpipe. If she didn’t escape soon she was going die of strangulation! Anger began to overtake Lucy’s panic and fear. She wasn’t going to let this happen to her.
“Why are you doing this?” Lucy spluttered out between choking coughs. “You’re supposed to be on … be on … the side of good. Which is my side! Put me down.”
The angel’s grip on Lucy’s collar loosened. Lucy took in great ragged gulps of air. Her captor stared at her. A dim light glimmered in its eyeholes as though Lucy’s admonishments had sparked life in there. But the light died after a few seconds and the angel’s grip tightened again. Lucy frantically tried to fathom what was happening. Was getting angry with the angel triggering some kind of magic? Although Lucy’s magical abilities were still very new to her and she didn’t understand much about how it all worked, she did know that imagining what you wanted to happen sometimes played a part. Lucy held on to her anger, refusing to let fear take over.
“You … should be … ashamed of yourself, helping a criminal!” she said between gasps for air.
Again the angel’s eyes glinted. Again it paused in its efforts to strangle Lucy. Convinced now that her anger was having an effect, Lucy continued to berate her attacker. At the same time, she visualised the angel releasing her and pursuing the graverobber instead. As deeply and vividly as she could, she imagined landing on the soft grass, the ground vibrating as the stone angel pounded towards the graverobber, and his cries as the angel imprisoned him in her stony arms. She held the images in her mind.
And held them there.
And held them there.
The grip on Lucy’s collar loosened, sending her tumbling to the grass. She rolled out of the way of the angel’s feet; it was clumping towards the graverobber now, just as she’d imagined it doing. With the angel suitably distracted, Lucy crawled swiftly over to Lord Grave, who was still lying flat out on the grass. She shook him.
“Sir, sir, please wake up!”
But Lord Grave lay frighteningly still. Lucy put her ear against his chest. She could just about make out the comforting whump whump of his heart. She sat back on her heels, shaky with relief that at least Lord Grave wasn’t dead. But now she needed to get help and fast! The best thing to do was to shortcut back to Grave Hall and fetch help. She briefly surveyed the situation. The angel was looming over the graverobber now, and Bathsheba still had him firmly under her paws, so hopefully there was no immediate danger.
Lucy hurriedly began the process of shortcutting back to Grave Hall, imagining herself in the meeting room where the rest of MAAM would be waiting. But before she’d got very far, a rough but friendly tongue licked the back of her neck.
“Bathsheba! You’re supposed to be guarding the …” She looked frantically around and saw that the graverobber was now free and on his feet, seeking the book he’d dropped. Even worse, the angel had turned away from and was heading for Lucy again, its face contorted with anger.
