Arnie Jenks and the House of Strangers (10 page)

Arnie paced up and down the Blue Room for quite a long time, listening and watching for a sign of anything happening, but whenever he looked outside, the snow remained thick on the ground.

‘Could this be it Emily?' he said wearily, staring out into the night, ‘My adventure over?' He heard no answer to this and so reluctantly headed over to the fireplace and poked the remains of the smouldering wood that Emily had lit earlier.

The burning embers glowed back at him as he gazed into the patterns made by the swirls and wisps of smoke. For a moment he imagined himself at home in his room with familiar things around him. His books, drums and a newly acquired hamster he called
Spangles
after an old fashioned sweet. Then his mind wandered to his father and aunt hoping they weren't worrying about him too much. He closed his eyes and he saw them smile.

Suddenly a cold blast of wind spiralled down the chimney and battered his face. The fire went out.

Wide awake, he stood up quickly and edged gingerly towards the door. Opening it an inch – he nosed out. There seemed to be no one around. Soft daylight bathed the cream and yellow walls around the hall suggesting it was either early morning or evening. The hands of the grandfather clock confirmed the time to be 7.23. Next to it, hanging by a wonky screw, an old olive tinted glass thermometer registered a temperature of 71 degrees Fahrenheit. ‘What's that in centigrade?' Arnie muttered as he tried to calculate the figure.

He reached the turning leading down towards the servants' area. There was now a door across it that had been left ajar and from behind he detected a sense of something. His stomach lurched. For a moment he dared not look through it but finally plucked up the courage. In the distance beyond, a single bulb flickered on – then off – then on – then off – then on. It beckoned like a beacon.

He pushed the door open and started walking, his heart pounding furiously, like a prisoner being sent to the gallows.

As he reached the end he saw, under the light, a sprawling collection of pictures displayed on the wall. Young children on donkeys being led by the reins, sandcastles on unspoilt beaches in blissful weather, a man standing proudly by an apple press, and a boy happily astride an upturned canoe perched on a riverbank.

Next to these, a procession of landscape photographs. The earliest were scratchy black and white – very formal – showing a school; the pupils in regulation uniform and the masters in starched shirts, waistcoats and bowler hats, dated between 1933 and 1939. There followed a gap until the 1950s when cheekier faces started appearing more often, followed by images from the late 1960s; the florid collar, kipper tie and open-toed sandal being the fashion in those days. The location: Frenchingham School – Oxfordshire.

Next to the most recent – dated 1974 – was a double portrait of two boys. Arnie thought they must be in their mid teens with one being perhaps two or three years older than the other. The youngest beamed at the camera as happy as a lark while his neighbour, dark eyed and brooding, seemed haunted. The final item pinned up was a calendar hung open at the month of August 1976.

Arnie realised he was feeling uncomfortably hot. He pulled off the smock given to him while in Lady Dervela's time and rolled up the sleeves of his thin jumper sighing with relief as he felt his body start to cool.

SMASH! A breaking of glass from somewhere else made Arnie spin round. He crept off swiftly, returning the way he had come.

Arnie sneaked a look through the partially open door back towards the hall. A table lamp had come crashing to the floor over which water from a broken vase continued to dribble. An umbrella stand had been brought down too – its contents dislodged. Above him the noise of thudding feet reverberated around the upper landing.

‘Let me go!' floated down a pained voice.

Arnie padded softly to the foot of the stairs before daring to look up. But he couldn't see anything. He listened intently for a moment and then followed warily, tiptoeing as fast as he could.

As he reached the second floor, he heard the sound of a door open. Crouching low behind the banisters and peering through the struts of the upright wooden spindles, he saw two feet exit a room and move hurriedly towards him before turning sharply and heading downstairs. A moment later a second pair of shoes followed the first and made a hasty departure also. Arnie waited until the coast was clear before bobbing up and rushing to the room.

Finding a key in the lock he carefully turned it and went inside.

A figure was lying huddled on the floor. As Arnie crept closer he saw it was a young man, a few years older than himself, dressed in a white shirt and grey trousers streaked with mud. Arnie knelt down beside him.

‘Hello. Are you all right?'

The stranger remained still, his hands covering his ears.

‘Can I help you?' he continued.

‘David…is that you?' the young man said blearily, slowly rolling over.

‘No, I'm Arnie.'

The stranger opened his eyes, blinking for a moment, struggling to work out where he was. Suddenly, he lashed out pushing Arnie hard in the stomach.

‘Get away! Leave me alone!' he cried.

Arnie fell back onto the floor putting out his own hands in self-defence.

‘Hey! I'm not here to hurt you,' he said slightly winded.

The young man cowered and drew back to sit on his heels. Through a mass of lanky straw-coloured hair, which covered half of his face, he scrutinised Arnie.

‘I'm sorry. Thought you were
them
…coming back for me.' His voice faltered.

‘I'm not, I was just passing by.'

‘Passing by?'

‘Who were they?' Arnie said quickly to avoid answering the question.

‘Burglars!' the young man said alarmed, looking down at the floor.

‘Right!' said Arnie. ‘That explains the mess downstairs…'

The young man hesitated before nodding slowly in agreement.

‘Would you recognise them again?' Arnie queried.

‘What?'

‘Well, I didn't see anything I'm afraid – just their feet. They were sort of in a rush to be somewhere when they passed me out there on the landing.' Arnie scratched his head. ‘I wonder what they came for?'

The slamming of car doors outside interrupted them. Jumping up, the stranger sidled up to the window and peeked out.

‘Can you see anyone?' whispered Arnie keenly.

‘No – they're inside,' he replied cautiously as a throaty motor engine started up.

The throttle revved hard before the vehicle blasted off with a roar, accelerating at high speed away from the house before eventually petering out along the drive.

‘They've gone,' he said relieved.

‘Whew! That's good then – at least we're safe,' said Arnie, noticing that the stranger's hands were shaking.

He turned from the window and swept his hair back. Arnie could now see him properly: quite slim of moderate height with a slight waist. A few spots circled his chin on a serious looking face.

‘You go to Frenchingham School,' piped up Arnie.

‘What?' said the young man nervously.

‘I saw your photograph back down the passage, next to another boy.'

‘That's my brother.'

‘David?' tried Arnie.

The young man nodded. ‘And I'm Dirk.'

‘Hi,' said Arnie unnecessarily.

‘But now I don't,' he said.

‘Don't what?'

‘Go to school.' His face dropped. ‘I've left.'

‘Really? I wish I could give up too. It's quite boring sometimes,' Arnie joshed.

Dirk straightened. ‘I liked it. I wanted to stay there.'

‘I felt the same when it was time for me to move to Gortenslade.'

‘I was made to leave,' Dirk stated flatly.

‘Oh. Time for a change was it?'

‘Something like that,' said Dirk, exercising his jaw as he tweaked the curtains to snatch a glance back outside. Low sunlight beamed in catching Dirk's sharp, granite-like profile.

‘All clear still?' said Arnie.

Dirk looked back, concentrating. ‘Yes. We're on our own.'

‘Let's hope so,' said Arnie relieved, as Dirk unsmiling, led the way out of the bedroom.

When they reached the hall Arnie noticed a red telephone upended on the floor.

‘We should call the police,' he said.

‘I s'pose so,' said Dirk vaguely, looking around at the debris. He twitched and put his hand to his neck revealing a bruise.

‘Did the robbers do that to you?' said Arnie, staring at a dark purple welt that shone out from above the collarbone.

‘I think so,' Dirk said, steadying himself. ‘Though I can't quite remember how – it all happened so fast,' he reflected.

Then he looked at Arnie. ‘You never answered my question – what made you come here?'

Arnie felt a rush of heat to his face.

‘Oh…accident really. Took a short cut across country trying to get back to the town and not knowing the area very well…I came in to ask directions,' Arnie lied.

‘Directions?'

‘Yes…got a bit lost. I…couldn't see anyone down here, so I came upstairs…'

Dirk considered this explanation for a moment before nodding and turned to go.

‘The police?' Arnie reminded him.

‘Mmmm?'

Arnie raised his eyebrows and indicated the telephone near his feet.

Dirk reluctantly scooped it up.

‘They won't be able to do anything,' he said, shaking his head despondently. Dirk's index finger hesitated over the dial. Then looking puzzled, he squatted down and coaxed out a long flex that had come free from a plastic box on the wall. He held up the twisted end – frayed and useless.

‘No way of calling help now,' Dirk said indifferently. ‘It'll just have to wait till my father gets back.'

‘I
was
meaning to ask, how come you're alone here?'

Dirk rotated his neck and attempted to massage his shoulder.

‘I just am that's all,' he said. ‘My father and David needed to go out and I was to stay here. I
am
old enough you know. It's quite legal.'

‘Ok ok!' said Arnie.

‘Anyway – don't suppose it can hurt to wait…' said Dirk vaguely.

‘Uh?'

‘My father will know what to do, he'll sort everything out…' Dirk looked distant, away out into the depths of the house. His hands were still lightly trembling.

‘You're in shock.'

Dirk didn't answer immediately but looked at Arnie as though he didn't know him.

‘What did you say your name was again?'

‘Arnie Jenks.'

Dirk nodded and then whispered to himself. ‘Yes, everything will be all right when they get back…'

‘Yeah – ok – that's sounds good,' grinned Arnie. ‘He can contact the police somehow.'

‘I'd like you to go now if you don't mind,' Dirk interrupted sharply.

‘What?'

He indicated towards the front door. Arnie stood his ground.

Dirk's face softened. ‘Oh yeah – course.'

Arnie smiled.

‘You don't know the way do you?' Dirk realised.

‘But…'

‘Follow the drive until you reach the first cattle grid and from there take the path on your left which cuts across the field. Couple of miles or so and you'll come out behind the Rose and Crown in the high street.'

‘But it'll be getting dark soon! I might get lost,' Arnie tried.

‘Not if you stick to the path. It's easy,' said Dirk, forcing a wide smile.

‘But what if I should meet someone? I'd…rather not,' he pretended.

‘They'll be no one around. People don't tend to come here much and unexpected visitors are rare.'

Arnie prickled as he followed Dirk's instructions reluctantly.

‘You'll be fine,' Dirk called after him, ‘when you come to a little bridge that crosses the river you'll see the lights of the town, can't go wrong.'

‘Are you sure there is nothing that I can do?'

‘No, really, you've…' Dirk said more upbeat, ‘…been great…very helpful.'

‘Dirk,' Arnie called, as he reached the outer hall.

‘Yes?'

‘Why did you think I was your brother back there?'

Dirk stared blankly at him.

‘In the bedroom,' clarified Arnie.

‘I didn't.'

‘But you looked at me and said…'

‘I was expecting David to find me. He usually does – one way or another.' Dirk looked distant as his thoughts seemed to drift somewhere else.

‘Now,' Dirk sighed, ‘I had better think about what to say when Father gets back. He isn't going to be very pleased.'

‘But it's not
your
fault what happened here.'

Dirk stared at Arnie, his eyes quite still.

‘You don't know my father,' he said ominously. Then he turned with a flicker of a smile and walked stiffly through the hall towards a room and went inside.

Arnie reluctantly left the house and stood in the front porch gazing uncertainly into the evening sky. The weathercock on the gable end of Shabbington Hall was listless and the air felt suffocating. Arnie sensed a touch of hay fever and rubbed his nose to quell an itch. Then he noticed some very muddy footprints on the ground and, curious, followed them back inside the house. They led to the drawing room.

Inside it was a mess. Books and papers had been thrown all over the floor and a wicker chair lay upturned among the remains of some food trodden into the carpet.

‘The burglars…' Arnie muttered, examining the wreckage. ‘Why have they done all this?' Arnie checked the windows and pulled at the latches but they wouldn't budge. ‘If you are listening Emily, I can't see a sign of forced entry here.' He knelt down. ‘So they
must
have got in through the front door. Though if you or I – Emily – wanted to do the perfect robbery, wouldn't you start by wiping your feet?'