finger to his lips and whispered harshly, ‘Not a sound. My sister may be at home.’
‘She is,’ Benjamin whispered back.
There was a shriek from the street and Olivia came flying up to them, the basket swinging wildly from her hand. ‘Wait for me!’ she called.
‘Ssssh!’ hissed the boys.
‘Sorry,’ said Olivia, catching her breath. ‘Is the demented grandma about?’
Benjamin nodded. Olivia scrambled up the steps and hopped into the hall with the others. Uncle Paton quietly closed the door, and Olivia plonked her basket beside the coat-stand.
They tiptoed into the kitchen, where Maisie was waiting anxiously. ‘Nothing’s happened,’ she said. ‘Not a sign. I keep taking a look, but the wretched picture just sits there, looking back at me. D’you know what? I can feel a kind of smugness coming from it.’
‘We’ll take a look.’ Uncle Paton removed his hat.
Benjamin’s stomach gave a loud bleat.
‘Goodness,’ Maisie exclaimed. ‘I’ve even forgotten lunch. That’s a first. I’ll get a bit ready while you lot go down into the cellar.’
Uncle Paton thought it unnecessary for them all to visit the cellar. Telling Fidelio and Olivia to wait in the kitchen, he chose just Benjamin to accompany him. Benjamin had, after all, seen Runner Bean vanish, and he could tell if the painting had changed at all.
Paton lit three candles in a tall candelabrum that stood on the dresser. ‘Don’t, whatever you do, turn the light on in the cellar,’ he told Benjamin.
‘Course not, Mr Yewbeam,’ Benjamin said emphatically.
Paton descended the steps backwards with the candelabrum in his right hand. Benjamin followed.
‘Ye gods, what a grim place!’ Paton declared as the flickering candlelight played over the surface of the painting.
Benjamin shuddered. Badlock had looked sinister before. In candlelight it looked terrifying. He could hardly bear to think what might have become of Runner Bean in such an awful place. And then he saw it. At the bottom of the painting, peeping round the corner of one of the towers, was a dog. Runner Bean. His mouth was open in a silent howl.
Benjamin screamed.
‘What the –’ Uncle Paton almost dropped the candelabrum.
‘Look, look, Mr Yewbeam!’ Benjamin pointed a shaking finger at Runner Bean.
Paton bent closer to the dog’s head.
Benjamin’s scream had brought the others rushing to the cellar door.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Maisie demanded.
‘Can I come down, please?’ begged Olivia. ‘I can’t stand not knowing.’
‘Runner’s h-h-here . . .’ Benjamin quavered.
‘Here?’ said Fidelio.
‘Here . . . but, not here. There,’ moaned Benjamin.
‘In the painting.’ Uncle Paton’s tone gave the already tense atmosphere an edge of menace. This was too much for Olivia, who began to scramble down the steps. She was stopped by a shout from the hall.
‘RABBIT!’ screamed Grandma Bone.
Grandma Bone was scared of most animals, but harmless rabbits were her bêtes noires.
Olivia reluctantly climbed back, while Fidelio said calmly, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Bone. It won’t hurt you.’
‘It’s EVIL,’ shrilled Grandma Bone, and then she saw Olivia. ‘What are you doing here, you harpy?’
Olivia had never been called a harpy before. She was rather pleased. Her rabbit, George, had escaped from his basket and was now halfway up the stairs, happily grazing the carpet. Grandma Bone was standing at the top; one of her small black eyes was screwed shut, the other watched the rabbit’s progress in horror.
Olivia leapt up the stairs, grabbed her rabbit and carried him back to his basket. ‘He honestly wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she said, fastening the basket lid.
‘I asked you what you were doing here.’ Feeling safer, Grandma Bone slowly descended the stairs.
Before Olivia could think of a reply, Uncle Paton emerged from the cellar and said, ‘I think it’s about time you answered a few of my questions, Grizelda.’
‘Such as?’ Grandma Bone tossed her head imperiously.
‘Such as – what is that painting doing in the cellar, and where has it come from?’
‘None of your business.’ With a wary glance at George’s basket, Grandma Bone swept down the stairs and crossed the hall into the sitting room. Uncle Paton followed her and the three children trooped after him. Maisie, however, sank on to the hall chair with a baffled sigh.
‘It is my business,’ Uncle Paton insisted.
Grandma Bone settled herself in an armchair and picked up a newspaper.
‘Are you listening to me, Grizelda?’ roared Uncle Paton, and then, to the concern of the three children hovering by the door, he said, ‘Your grandson has vanished into that painting.’
Benjamin muttered, ‘We’re not supposed to tell . . .’
Grandma Bone lowered her newspaper. Her long, grumpy face was momentarily transformed by a look of pure delight. ‘But that’s what he does,’ she said.
In the giant’s tower, Charlie gave Runner Bean a brief wave, before being lowered to the floor by Otus.
‘A dog?’ said Otus. ‘Their like is ne’er seen in Badlock.’
‘We must rescue him before those awful troll-things come back,’ said Charlie, making for the door.
‘Boy, wait!’ commanded Otus. ‘This is not as simple as it seems.’
‘Nothing here is simple.’ Charlie began to run down the stone spiral.
‘STOP!’ The giant’s huge roar echoed down the stairwell and Charlie was forced to obey. ‘It is most likely a trick, Charlie, to force you into the open. Come back, I beg you.’
Charlie reluctantly trudged back to the giant’s room. The situation would be hopeless, he realised, if both he and Runner Bean were caught. ‘I feel so guilty,’ he told the giant, ‘leaving him out there all alone, specially now he’s seen me.’
‘I know, I know.’ Otus lit a candle and set it on the table. ‘But all about us there are towers and watchers. Soon the darkness will come, a darkness like no other, Charlie. No stars shine in Badlock and moonlight is – scarce. So we will creep down our tower and rescue the poor dog then.’
The giant stirred the pot hanging over his stove. ‘I had a dog once, in the world we come from. It was a fine dog and we were scarce parted. Here in Badlock there are no dogs or cats. There are only bugs and slimy, creeping, cold-blooded things called durgles. And the birds fly on bony featherless wings, and they have long, fearful beaks.’
Charlie climbed on to the giant’s bed. ‘Why are there no dogs or cats?’
‘The shadow and his people consider a creature’s use is solely for the food it can provide, or for the pelt that can become a cloak, a jerkin, or even shoes. Every warm-blooded creature has been hunted, almost to extinction. Only squirras survive; they breed like demons, that is the reason, perhaps.’
‘What about blancavamps?’ asked Charlie.
‘Aha, the blancabats.’ Otus smiled. ‘They dare not touch the blancavamps, for they are ghosties.’ He ladled several