Return to Groosham Grange Read online

  Carry the Unholy Grail into the shadow of Canterbury Cathedral and the school would disappear!

  So that was what Vincent was planning. He wanted to destroy the school and had learned that the only way to do it was to get his hands on the Grail. But first he had to get rid of David—and he had done that brilliantly, baiting him to start with, then framing him and finally cheating him. In just three days’ time, Vincent would be presented with his prize. And what then? Somehow he would smuggle it off the island. He would carry it to Canterbury. And then . . .

  But what about the bats?

  David put down the book and went over to the pile of paper. Paper, candles and bats. They were right next to one another. And when you added them together, what did you get? Candles to see by. Paper to write on. Bats to . . .

  “Homing bats,” he muttered. Why not? Homing bats were more reliable than homing pigeons. And they were perfect for carrying secret messages. They preferred the dark.

  David felt in his pants pocket and pulled out a pencil. It was such an old trick that he was almost ashamed to be trying it. Softly, he scribbled the pencil along the top sheet on the pile of paper, shading it gray. When he had penciled over the entire sheet, he picked it up and held it against the candle flame.

  It had worked. David could read five faint lines written in the same tight hand as the notebook:EVEN MORE TOP SECRET

  THAN USUAL

  To the Bishop of Bletchley

  David Eliot is out of the running. The Grail will be delivered on prize-giving day. Departure from the island will proceed as planned. Am confident that a few days from now, Groosham Grange will no longer exist.

  The note was signed with a cross.

  Smiling to himself, David wandered over to the broken window and gazed out into the night. Just a few hours before, he had been considering packing his bags and leaving the school. Everything was different now. The sheet of paper and the notebook were all he needed. Once he showed them to the heads, the truth would come out.

  What happened next took him completely by surprise. One moment he was standing on the edge of the tower. The next he was toppling forward as something—someone—crashed into the small of his back. He hadn’t seen them. He hadn’t heard them. For a second or two his hands flailed at the empty air. He tried to regain his balance, but then whoever it was pushed him again and he fell out of the window, away from the tower, into the night.

  He was dead. A fall of six hundred feet onto the cold earth below would kill him for sure. The wind rushed into his face and the whole world twisted upside down. There was no time to utter a spell, no time to do anything.

  With a last, despairing cry, he thrust his hand out, grabbing at the darkness, not expecting to find anything. But there was something. His fingers closed. Somehow his arm had caught a branch of ivy. He gripped tighter. He was still falling, pulling the ivy away with him as he went. But the farther he fell, the thicker the ivy became. He was tangled up in it and it was slowing him down. More branches wrapped themselves around his chest and his waist. He came to a halt. With the ground only a hundred feet away, the ivy reclaimed him, springing him back, crashing him into the brickwork. David shouted with pain. His arm had almost been torn out of its socket. But a few moments later he found himself dangling in midair. He was no longer falling. He was alive.

  It took him thirty minutes to disentangle himself and climb the rest of the way down, and when he finally found himself on the ground once again, he felt dizzy and sick. He took a deep breath, then looked back up. The window where he had been pushed was almost out of sight, terribly high up. It was a miracle that he was alive at all.

  Even so, he knew what he had to do. As much as the idea appalled him, he had to be certain and so, forcing himself on, he went back into the East Tower and all the way back up the stairs. The top chamber was empty this time. And his worst fears had been realized. The pile of papers, the bats and the notebook were gone.

  Prize-Giving

  The orange Rolls-Royce was tearing up the highway at a hundred miles an hour. All around it, cars were hooting, swerving and crashing into the hard shoulder as they tried to get out of the way.

  “Shouldn’t you be driving on the left side of the road, dear?” Mrs. Eliot demanded.

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Eliot replied, poking her with the cigarette lighter. “We’re part of Europe now. I drive on the right in France and Switzerland. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do the same here.”

  Mrs. Eliot’s false eyelashes fluttered as a tractor trailer jackknifed out of their path, its horn blaring. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she muttered.

  “Well, put your head out of the window,” Mr. Eliot snapped. “And this time remember to open the window first.”

  Edward and Eileen Eliot were on their way to Norfolk in their specially converted Rolls-Royce. Mr. Eliot was unable to walk, which would have been sad except that he had never really liked walking in the first place and much preferred his wheelchair. He was a short, round man with more hair in his nostrils than on his head. His wife, Eileen, was much taller than him with so many false parts—hair, teeth, nails, eyelashes—that it was hard to be sure what she looked like at all.

  They were not alone in the car. Wedged into the very corner of the backseat was a small, shriveled woman in a drab cotton dress. She had pale cheeks, crooked teeth and hair that could have fallen off a horse. This was Mildred Eliot, Edward’s sister. After eleven years of marriage, her husband had recently died of boredom. Mildred had talked all the way through the funeral and had only stopped when one of the undertakers had finally hit her with a spade.

  “What’s that funny rattling noise, Edward?” she asked now as the car turned off the highway, went the wrong way around a roundabout and raced through a set of red lights.

  “What rattling noise?” Mr. Eliot demanded.

  “I think it must be the engine,” Mildred sniffed. “Personally I don’t trust these English cars,” she went on in her thin, whiny voice. “They’re so unreliable. Why didn’t you buy a nice Japanese car, Edward? The Japanese know how to build cars. Why didn’t you—”

  “Unreliable!” Mr. Eliot screamed, interrupting her. He wrenched the steering wheel, sending the car off the road and onto the sidewalk. “This is a Rolls-Royce you’re talking about! Do you know how much a Rolls-Royce costs? It costs thousands! I didn’t eat for a month after I bought my Rolls-Royce. I couldn’t afford gas for three years!”

  “They’re very reliable,” Eileen Eliot agreed, sticking her finger into the cigarette lighter to demonstrate. There was a flash as the dashboard short-circuited and she electrocuted herself.

  “The Japanese couldn’t build a Rolls-Royce in a thousand years,” Mr. Eliot continued, unplugging his wife. “In fact they couldn’t even pronounce it!” He jammed his foot down on the accelerator, but he must have taken a wrong turn as he was now shooting through a play-ground with mothers and children hurling themselves into the flower beds to get out of the way. “What sort of road is this?” he demanded angrily.

  “The Japanese have marvelous roads,” Mildred remarked. “And bullet trains . . .”

  “I’ll bullet you . . .” Mr. Eliot growled. He stamped down and the Rolls-Royce smashed through a fence, leaped over the sidewalk and headed on toward the Norfolk coast.

  Two hours later, they arrived.

  Because it was on an island, Groosham Grange was unreachable by car—even by Rolls-Royce—and the last part of the journey had to be undertaken by boat. Mr. Eliot had parked right beside the sea and now he wheeled himself down to a twisting wooden jetty that jutted out precariously over the water. There was a boat waiting for them—an old fisherman’s trawler. The old fisherman was sitting inside.

  Seeing Mr. Eliot, he stood up. “More parents?” he demanded.

  Mr. Eliot examined the man with distaste. He looked like something out of a pirate film, what with his black beard and single gold earring. “Yes,” he said. “Will you ferry us over?”


  “I will. I’ll ferry you there. I’ll ferry you back. I been doing it all day.” The man spat. “Parents! Who needs ’em!”

  “What’s your name?” Mr. Eliot demanded.

  “Bloodbath. Captain Bloodbath.” The captain squinted. “And I take it that’s your lovely wife?”

  Mr. Eliot glanced at Mildred, who was standing beside him. She had a large, bulging handbag on her arm. “She’s not my wife and she’s not lovely,” he replied. “My wife is under the car.”

  “I’ve fixed it!” Eileen Eliot called out and sat up, banging her head on the exhaust with a dull clang. There was oil on her dress and more on her face. She had a wrench in one hand and another one between her teeth. “I think you must have cracked a cylinder when you ran over that cyclist,” she said, joining the others on the jetty.

  “Typical English workmanship,” Mildred muttered.

  Mr. Eliot took one of the wrenches and hit her with it. “Let’s get on the boat,” he said.

  A few minutes later, Captain Bloodbath cast off, and belching black smoke and rumbling, the boat began the crossing. The captain sat at the front, steering, and Mr. Eliot was surprised to see that his hands seemed to be made of steel.

  “They’re ally-minium!” Bloodbath exclaimed, noticing the banker staring at him. He clapped his hands together with a loud ping. “My own hands was pulled off a year ago. Lost at sea. The boys made these ones for me in metalwork class. Very handy they are too!”

  “Delightful,” Mrs. Eliot agreed with a weak smile.

  There was a slight mist on the water, but as they chugged forward, it suddenly parted. And there were the soaring cliffs of Skrull Island with the waves crashing and frothing on the jagged black rocks below. The boat pulled into a second jetty and then there was a five-minute drive up the steep road to the school with Gregor, who was simpering and sniggering at the wheel.

  “I’m not sure I think too much of the staff,” Mrs. Eliot whispered. “I mean, that man with no hands! And unless I’m mistaken, this driver is completely deformed!”

  The car stopped. Mildred uttered a little scream and leaped out.

  “What’s happened?” Mr. Eliot exclaimed. “Has she been stung by a wasp?”

  “It’s David!” Mildred threw her hands up above her head. “Oh, David! I hardly recognized you!” she warbled. She slapped her hands limply against her cheeks. “You’ve grown so tall! And you’ve put on weight! And your hair’s so long. You’ve completely changed!”

  “That’s because I’m not David,” the boy she was talking to said. “That’s David over there . . .”

  “Oh . . .”

  By this time, Mr. Eliot had been helped out of the car and he and Eileen Eliot were looking uncertainly at the school. The sun was shining and the whole building had been decked out for the day with a few strips of bunting and flags. A refreshment tent had been set up in the grounds. But even so it still looked rather grim.

  David walked over to them. “Hello, Mother,” he said. “Hello, Father. Hello, Aunt Mildred.”

  Mr. Eliot eyed his son critically. “How many prizes have you won?” he asked.

  David sighed. “I’m afraid I haven’t won any.”

  “Not any!” Mr. Eliot exploded. “That’s it, then! Back in the car! We’re going home.”

  “But we only just got here,” his wife protested.

  Mr. Eliot wheeled over her foot. “Well, we’re off again,” he yelled. “I won a prize every year I was at Beton College. I won prizes for history, geometry and French. I even won prizes for winning prizes! If I hadn’t won a prize, my father would have sliced me open with a surgical knife and confiscated one of my kidneys!”

  By now Mr. Eliot had gone bright red. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing and his whole face was contorted with pain. Mrs. Eliot took out a bottle of pills and forced several of them into his mouth. “You shouldn’t upset your father, David,” she said. “You know he has trouble with his blood pressure. Sometimes his blood doesn’t have any pressure at all!”

  “I’m sorry,” David muttered.

  By the time Mr. Eliot had recovered, Gregor had taken the car back to the jetty to fetch another batch of parents and so he was forced to stay. Fortunately for David, Mr. Helliwell chose that moment to come over and introduce himself. The voodoo teacher was dressed in his fanciest clothes for prize-giving: black suit and tails, wing collar and, perched on his head, a crooked black hat. He had also painted his face white with black rings around his eyes. Both Mildred and Mrs. Eliot trembled as he approached, but Mr. Helliwell couldn’t have been more friendly. “You should be very proud of David,” he said.

  “Why?” Mr. Eliot asked.

  “He’s coming along very well.” Mr. Helliwell smiled, showing a line of teeth like tombstones. “He may have been unlucky, not getting the prize, but otherwise he’s had a good year. I’m sure he’ll get a good report card.”

  David was grateful to the teacher despite himself. But he still couldn’t meet Mr. Helliwell’s eyes. The memory of the trial and what had happened afterward was still too raw.

  “Perhaps you would like me to show you around the school,” Mr. Helliwell said.

  “Around it?” Mrs. Eliot asked. “Why can’t we go in it?”

  “He means in it, you idiotic woman,” Mr. Eliot snapped.

  “This way . . .” Mr. Helliwell winked at David, then began to push the wheelchair. Eileen Eliot and Mildred followed.

  “They have much more modern schools in Tokyo,” Mildred said. She pulled her handbag farther up her arm. “The Japanese have a wonderful education system . . .”

  And then they were gone, entering the building through one of the open doors. They had quite forgotten David. But that suited him fine. The day was moving too fast. He needed time to think.

  There were about thirty-five sets of parents on the island, more than eighty people in all, what with various aunts, uncles and friends. All of them were milling about in their best clothes, the women with hats and handbags, the men smug and smiling. Of course, they weren’t going to be allowed to see everything. A lot of the school’s equipment—the skulls, five-fingered candleholders, wands, magic circles and the rest of it—had been hidden away. For the next ten minutes they would wander around the grounds and then they would all assemble in the large tent where Mr. Kilgraw would make a speech and Vincent King would be awarded the Unholy Grail.

  David knew that this would be the critical moment. It would be the only time when Vincent would have the Grail in his hands. If he was going to get it off the island, he would have to do it today.

  And that was the one thing he still didn’t know. How did Vincent plan to remove the Grail?

  It seemed to him that there was only one way—in Captain Bloodbath’s boat. But that had been kept well secured ever since David himself had stolen it a while back. So what was Vincent going to do? David had been surprised to discover that Vincent’s parents weren’t coming to prize-giving—so they couldn’t take it for him. But perhaps he had someone in the crowd: a fake uncle or aunt. Perhaps the Bishop of Bletchley himself was here, in disguise. Even now he could be waiting to seize it. And with so many people coming and going, it would be easy to smuggle it away.

  But David had no idea what the Bishop looked like—in disguise or out of it. There were plenty of parents with white hair and saintly faces. He could be any one of them. David glanced at the tent. Vincent was standing in the sunlight with Monsieur Leloup, looking very dashing in a blazer and white pants. The French teacher was introducing him to a group of parents, obviously flattering him. David felt a surge of jealousy. That should have been him.

  “Seen anything?”

  Jill had come up behind him and caught hold of his arm. David had told her everything that had happened the morning after his fall from the East Tower. Only Jill, his closest friend on the island, would have believed him—and even she had taken a lot of persuading. But in the end she had agreed to help.

  David shook his head.
“No. Everything’s so ordinary. But I know it’s going to happen, Jill. And soon . . .”

  “Maybe you should go to the heads, David.”

  “And tell them what?” David sighed. “They’d never listen to me.”

  “Look out!” Jill gestured in the direction of the school. “I think your parents are coming back.”

  “Do you want to meet them?”

  “No thanks.” Jill hurried off. She stopped a few paces away and turned round. “Don’t worry, David,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on Vincent.”

  Over by the tent, Vincent glanced suddenly toward them. Had he overheard what she had just said?

  But then Mr. Helliwell reached David, still pushing his father in the wheelchair.

  “An excellent school,” Mr. Eliot was saying. “I am most impressed. Of course, it is a little unnatural for boys and girls to be here together. At Beton College, where I went, there were only boys. In fact, even the headmaster’s wife was a boy. But I suppose that’s progress . . .”

  “Absolutely.” Mr. Helliwell smiled politely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” The teacher hurried off toward the tent.

  Mr. Eliot turned to his son. “Well, David,” he said. “I can see it was a good decision to send you here.”

  “Your father does make wonderful decisions,” Mrs. Eliot agreed.

  “I have suggested to Mr. Helliwell a little more use of the cane,” Mr. Eliot went on. He nodded to himself. “What I always say is that a good beating never hurt anyone.”

  Mrs. Eliot frowned. “But, darling, if it didn’t hurt, how could it be a good beating?”

  “No, my love. What I mean is—”

  But before Mr. Eliot could either explain or demonstrate what he meant, a bell rang. The prize-giving was about to begin.

  Mr. and Mrs. Eliot, Mildred and David joined the other parents. What with the narrow entrance and the number of people trying to get in, it was another quarter of an hour before they finally took their places. David looked around him, at the rows of seats stretched out underneath the canvas and the platform raised at the far end with the staff of Groosham Grange taking their places along it. He saw Vincent, sitting on his own. Then Mr. Kilgraw stood up and everyone hushed.