the distant shouts and chatter of children on the field, the thump of a football, the call of wood pigeons, but nothing else.
‘Are you sure, Billy?’ asked Charlie.
Billy hugged himself. He was shivering. ‘I think it would like to speak, but it’s caught on the wrong side.’
‘Wrong side of what?’ asked Fidelio.
Billy frowned. ‘I can’t explain.’
Charlie became aware that someone was standing behind them. He turned round, just in time to see a small figure dart away and join a group of new boys, playing football together.
‘Who was that?’ asked Gabriel.
‘New boy,’ said Charlie.
It was impossible to tell whether the boy was in Art, Drama or Music because he wasn’t wearing a cape. Today, it was warm and sunny. Summer was not yet over.
The sound of the horn rang out across the field and the four boys ran back into school.
For Charlie, the afternoon was no better than the morning. He found Mr Paltry at last, but too late for his lesson. ‘What’s the point of coming to a lesson without your trumpet?’ grumbled the elderly teacher. ‘You’re a waste of time, Charlie Bone. Endowed, my foot. Why don’t you use your so-called talent to locate your trumpet? Now get out and don’t come back until you’ve found it.’
Charlie left quickly. He had no idea where to look. ‘The Music Tower?’ Charlie asked himself. Perhaps one of the cleaners had found his trumpet and put it in Mr Pilgrim’s room at the top of the tower.
The way to the Music Tower led through a small, ancient-looking door close to the garden exit. Charlie braced himself, opened the door and began to walk down a long, damp passage. It was so dark he could barely see his own feet. He kept his eyes on a distant window in the small circular room at the end of the passage.
As he got closer to the room he began to hear voices, angry voices; men arguing.
There was a clatter of footsteps. Charlie stood still until whoever it was had reached the bottom of the long, spiralling staircase. A figure appeared at the end of the passage. It loomed towards Charlie and raised its purple wings, blocking out the light.
Plunged in darkness, Charlie screamed.
The boy with paper in his hair
‘Quiet!’ hissed a voice.
Charlie shrank against the wall as the person, or thing, swept past and whisked itself through the door into the hall.
Charlie didn’t know what to do. Should he go back the way he had come, or on towards the tower? The hissing person might be in the hall, waiting for him. He chose the tower.
As soon as he emerged in the round sunlit room at the end of the passage, Charlie felt better. Those purple wings had been the arms of a cape, he reasoned. And the angry person was probably a member of staff, arguing with someone. He began the long, spiral ascent to the top of the tower. Bloor’s Academy had five floors, but Mr Pilgrim’s music room was up yet another flight.
Charlie reached the small landing where music books were stored on shelves, in boxes and in untidy piles on the floor. Between the rows of shelving a small oak door led into the music room. A message had been pinned to the centre of the door. Mr Pilgrim is away.
Charlie rummaged in the boxes, lifted the piles of music and searched behind the heavy books on the shelves. He found a flute, a handful of violin strings, a tin of oatcakes and a comb, but no trumpet.
Was there any point in trying the room next door? Charlie remembered seeing a grand piano and a stool, nothing else. He looked again at the note. Mr Pilgrim is away. It looked forbidding, as though there was another message behind those four thinly printed words: Do not enter, you are not welcome here.
But Charlie was a boy who often couldn’t stop himself from doing what all the signs told him not to. This time, however, he did knock on the door before going in. To his surprise, he got an answer.
‘Yes,’ said a weary voice.
Charlie went in.
Dr Saltweather was sitting on the music stool. His arms were folded inside his blue cape and his thick, white hair stood up in an untidy, careless way. He wore an expression that Charlie had never seen on his face before: a look of worry and dismay.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘I was looking for my trumpet.’
‘Indeed.’ Dr Saltweather glanced at Charlie.
‘I suppose it isn’t in here.’
‘Nothing is in here,’ said Dr Saltweather.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Charlie was about to go when something made him ask, ‘Where is Mr Pilgrim, sir?’
‘Where?’ Dr Saltweather looked at Charlie as if he’d only just seen him. ‘Ah, Charlie Bone.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t know where Mr Pilgrim has gone. It’s a mystery.’
‘Oh.’ Charlie was about to turn away again but this time found himself saying, ‘I bumped into someone in the passage; I thought it might be him.’
‘No, Charlie.’ The music teacher spoke with some force. ‘That would have been Mr Ebony, your new form teacher.’
‘Our form teacher?’ Charlie gulped. He thought of the purple wings, the hissing voice.
‘Yes. It’s a little worrying, to say the least.’ Dr Saltweather gave Charlie a scrutinising stare, as though wondering if he should say more. ‘Mr Ebony came here to teach history,’ he went on, ‘but he turned up with a letter of resignation from Mr Pilgrim. I don’t know how he came by it. And now this – man – wants to teach piano.’ Dr Saltweather raised his voice. ‘He comes up here, puts a message on the door, tries to keep me out of a room in my own department . . . it’s intolerable!’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Charlie. ‘But he was wearing a purple cape, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, that!’ Dr Saltweather ran a hand through his white hair. ‘It seems that Mr Tantalus Ebony is in the Drama department, hence the purple.’
Charlie said, ‘I see,’ although, by now, he was very confused. He had never heard of a teacher being in three departments at once.
‘They are Dr Bloor’s arrangements, so what can I do?’ Dr Saltweather spread his hands. ‘Better run along now, Charlie. Sorry about the trumpet. Try one of the Art rooms. They’re always drawing our musical instruments.’
‘Art. Thank you, sir,’ said Charlie gratefully.
The Art rooms could only be reached by climbing the main staircase and Charlie had just put his foot on the first step when Manfred Bloor came out of a door in the hall.
‘Have you finished writing out your lines?’ asked Manfred coldly.
‘Er, no.’
Manfred approached Charlie. ‘Don’t forget, or you’ll get another hundred.’
‘Yes, Manfred. I mean no.’
Manfred gave a sigh of irritation and walked away.
‘Excuse me,’ Charlie said suddenly, ‘but are you still, erm, a pupil, Manfred?’
‘No I am not!’ barked the surly young man. ‘I am a teaching assistant. And call me sir.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The word ‘sir’ tasted funny when applied to Manfred, but Charlie smiled, hoping he’d said the right thing at last.
‘And don’t forget it.’ Manfred marched back into the Prefects’ room and slammed the door.
Charlie