The Vulture of Sommerset Read online

  Stephen M. Giles lives in a shambolic apartment not far from the beach and spends most days wandering around his imagination – which is where he met the Winterbottoms. When Stephen is not busy writing, he likes to collect old people and hopes one day to have enough of them to open a shop.

  Also by Stephen M. Giles

  Silas and the Winterbottoms

  The

  Vulture of

  Sommerset

  STEPHEN M. GILES

  First published 2010 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Stephen M. Giles 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Giles, Stephen M.

  The vulture of Sommerset/Stephen M. Giles.

  978 0 3304 2564 3 (pbk.)

  For children.

  A823.4

  Typeset in 11/17 pt Sabon by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  The Vulture of Sommerset

  Stephen M. Giles

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  978-1-74262-080-0

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  978-1-74262-081-7

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  978-1-74262-082-4

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  978-1-74262-083-1

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  To my grandparents,

  Edoardo, Adele, Ellen and Albert.

  Gone but not . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to everyone at Pan Macmillan, especially Claire Craig and the dedicated sales team for all their efforts on behalf of this series. A very special thank you to my agent, Ann Behar – we’ve come a long way and I’m so glad to have you in my corner. Thanks also to Juhi Yi, whose wonderful illustrations add so much to this book.

  PROLOGUE

  The boy moved slowly across the vast stretch of lawn beyond the rose gardens, his bony legs lost in the bleak mist hovering low over Sommerset. It was barely dawn but the morning’s bitter chill seemed not to trouble the boy as he passed by the avenue of rowan trees and headed for the Grand Maze.

  Behind him, across the endless patchwork of fragrant gardens, orchards and meadows, loomed Sommerset House. The towering castle sat like a stone colossus, its dozens of spired chimneys seething black smoke, each window an unblinking eye, watching the boy as he disappeared through the mouth of the maze.

  He passed down the first corridor – a long, narrow alley cast in virtual darkness by the towering hedges on either side – then moved with ease, turning this way and that, his brown shoes crunching the layers of frost underfoot, until he was deep inside the labyrinth. It soothed him to travel so far in; to be so very hard to find. The boy made a final left turn and passed through a tight zigzagged passageway before stopping.

  A narrow corridor stretched out before him. At the far end stood a marble statue of a winged child holding a lantern. Taking large strides the boy began the long walk down. His eyes were fixed upon the statue and he did not see the tree root jutting from the ground. The boy fell clumsily, landing with a thump on the wet earth. Pain flooded his right knee but he forced himself up, wiping the frost and dirt from his hands. Then he pulled back the dark hair that had fallen across his face like a curtain and looked again at the statue.

  The winged child was gone.

  A new statue stood in its place: a thin, ghostly figure. An old man sitting in a wheelchair. The boy froze. There was no doubting who it was etched so finely into the veined marble – that sinister grin, the shoulder-length hair, the bony hand resting upon the crocodile joystick.

  It was him.

  The boy wanted to run, to escape the maze, tracing back the way he had come until he was safely in the warmth of Sommerset House again. His legs, however, would not hear of it. They remained fastened to the ground as if they were nailed in place.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  He heard the crisp, rhythmic sound before he realised where it was coming from. Then, as his eyes wandered over the chilling statue, he saw the marbled index finger moving playfully upon the joystick.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Fear pierced his chest like a bullet. He could only watch in dread as slowly, gradually, the sculptured marble began to yield, the solid creamy veneer becoming supple and flushed. The marble’s dark veins began to wash a deep red as the stiff hands lifted, coming to rest upon the arms of the wheelchair. Then the shoulder-length hair, black as pitch, began to loosen and flutter in the faint breeze.

  Next the eyes sprang open: two dark moons.

  And then he rose. ‘Hello, Milo.’ Though he was standing some distance away, the warm baritone of Silas Winterbottom’s voice seemed to whisper into his ear. ‘How good of you to come.’

  Milo felt as if he had fallen into a bottomless pit. ‘You’re dead,’ he said faintly.

  ‘Indeed.’ Silas licked his lips then offered the slimmest of smiles. ‘And yet . . .’

  ‘I saw your ashes in the Soul Chamber,’ said the boy anxiously. ‘I saw them with my own eyes. You were dust!’

  ‘Dr Mangrove can do the most marvellous things with a pile of dust.’ Silas looked down admiringly at his legs. ‘He can raise the dead.’

  Milo shook his head. ‘We killed you.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you did.’ The man closed his eyes, sighing softly, and for the first time Milo became aware that despite the chill in the morning air there was no mist coming from his uncle’s mouth or nose. ‘But surely you didn’t think I would allow a little thing like death to stop me? Come now, Milo, deep down you always knew that I would find my way home.’

  ‘We killed you,’ Milo repeated.

  With great care Silas brushed a few stray flecks of marble from his black coat.

  ‘I must thank you, Milo,’ he declared warmly. ‘In my absence you have managed the gardens beautifully. It pleases me to watch you each morning tending the first blooms of spring. You love it as I do.’ He arched his right eyebrow and observed the boy carefully. ‘It did not escape my attention that you have removed many of the monuments from the grounds.’

  ‘Only the ones of you.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Silas sighed. ‘I always felt they gave the island a certain grandeur. Still, I suppose it’s only natural that you would want to clear aw
ay the past and make your mark on the estate. I felt much the same way when Sommerset first became mine all those years ago. We are very much alike, you and I.’

  ‘We are nothing alike,’ spat Milo.

  Silas appeared not to have heard him. ‘You might say we are kindred spirits.’

  The anger boiled up inside Milo, drowning the fear. Hearing his uncle talk that way was more than he could bear. ‘You tried to steal my body to keep your black soul alive; you and that lunatic Dr Mangrove!’ he shouted. ‘You’re a monster! A dead monster!’

  It happened in an instant. Silas was at the far end of the corridor, standing in front of the wheelchair, and then without warning he had closed the gap between them and was before his nephew, a vision of ghostly white. He hissed and his teeth looked like glass.

  ‘Death is temporary, child.’ He took the boy’s face in his skeletal fingers. ‘I am coming back. You can be certain of that.’

  Milo saw the fury in those black eyes, the hatred and hunger etched into the old man’s pallid face. He was just as Milo remembered. Only Silas’s hands were different – they had been cold to the touch when he was alive, but now they burned Milo’s cheeks, causing him to flinch.

  ‘Sommerset is my home,’ said Silas firmly, ‘and it will always be thus.’

  Milo pushed his uncle’s hands away and tried to run, but his legs would not shift.

  ‘The dead don’t come back!’ he shouted, summoning just enough strength to look Silas directly in the eyes. ‘And Sommerset is my home now, not yours. Go back to hell where you belong and leave me alone!’

  ‘Milo,’ whispered his uncle, ‘I couldn’t leave you if I tried. Without you there will be no homecoming. You see, we share more than blood.’

  Milo shook his head violently, shutting his eyes.

  ‘A fragment of my soul lives on.’ The dead man’s voice seemed to be coming from inside Milo’s mind. ‘It lives and it grows. I know you feel it.’

  ‘No!’

  Suddenly he was moving – pulled down the corridor of the maze clasped in Silas’s deathly grip, his feet dragging over the frosty ground, churning the ice and dirt like a plough. Silas curled his fingers tightly around Milo’s head, twisting it sideways. He pushed his dry lips against the boy’s ear.

  ‘I am coming back, Milo,’ he hissed. ‘I am coming home.’

  ‘NO!’

  Milo flew up, his eyes flicking open. Blinking rapidly he surveyed the darkened bedchamber. It was still. Silent. He felt the sweat rolling down his neck and the tremors in his arms and legs. Through the large bay windows the moonless sky gave no hint of sunrise. He let out a shaky breath and lay flat again, his body consumed with an aching tiredness.

  The dead don’t come back, he told himself. The dead don’t come back.

  Staring up into the blackness, Milo Winterbottom continued his silent refrain, longing for the sun to break across Sommerset and chase the ghost from his sleep.

  THE JOURNAL OF CAPTAIN

  BLOOM

  ‘Hannah! Hannah Spoon, you great lump, where are the orchids?’

  Isabella Winterbottom, dressed in a beautiful cream gown made of silk with a length of fine lilac ribbon around her waist, was pacing anxiously across the grand entrance hall of Sommerset House, munching furiously on an apple. (Isabella tended to munch furiously when she was in a crisis, which was practically all the time.) As she stomped back and forth under the hall’s enormous glass dome, the young Miss Winterbottom’s mind was a tangle of misery and violence. She was about to host the most important dinner party of her life and already it was shaping up to be a disaster!

  How could it be any other way? The maids at Sommerset House were world-class nincompoops, the new cook was a one-eyed Frenchman with a habit of falling asleep at the stove, and Isabella’s personal maid, Hannah Spoon, had the attention span of a puppy. At any moment Her Grace, the Duchess of Casale, and her daughter Lady Charlotte were due to arrive and what would they see upon entering the four-storey entrance hall with its gilded elevator cage, priceless antiques, domed glass ceiling and spectacular mahogany staircase? A table entirely without orchids.

  It was an outrage! ‘Hannah!’ bellowed Isabella. ‘Hannah!’

  ‘Coming, miss!’ cried Hannah, her voice trembling as she raced into the hall, trying desperately not to drop the crystal vase. Her head, which was not unpleasant, was hidden behind the enormous arrangement of orchids, severely limiting her vision. For this reason she took great care not to trip over Thorn, who was skulking around the hall shadowing Isabella’s every move. Thorn, a fearsome four-metre crocodile, had once been the beloved pet of Isabella’s uncle – the villainous Silas Winterbottom. But in the year following his death, the snooty heiress and the ferocious reptile had become inseparable.

  ‘Hurry!’ snapped Isabella. ‘The duchess will be here any second!’

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ said Hannah, placing the vase gently in the centre of the round table. ‘Scully wasn’t in the greenhouse when I went down to fetch the flowers. I had to run all over trying to find him.’

  ‘Gardeners are all the same; sneaky and devious.’ Isabella scowled as she watched Hannah making a rather clumsy job of arranging the orchids. ‘Here, let me,’ she said, slapping the poor maid’s hand away. ‘I realise you grew up on a turnip farm, dear, but even you must know what an honour it is to have a duchess to dinner.’

  ‘Oh yes, miss,’ said Hannah, ‘a great honour.’

  ‘A very great honour, and I want the old bat to love me, so everything must be perfect. Now hurry to the dining room and make sure Mrs Hammer has finished laying the table.’

  Hannah raced from the hall as Isabella fussed over the orchids until each bloom was perfectly arranged. Orchids were the duchess’s favourite flower and winning the great lady’s approval meant everything to Isabella. After all, Her Grace was a genuine aristocrat (the third cousin of a deposed king) and her Summer Ball at Klidemarsh Castle was the social event of the year. Only the cream of society was invited and Isabella Winterbottom was determined to be added to the list.

  But it would not be easy. Lady Charlotte attended the same school as Isabella and her cousins – the Pemberley Academy – but despite Isabella’s best efforts, Charlotte had shown very little interest in the world-famous Winterbottoms. In fact, she ignored them whenever possible.

  ‘That will all change tonight!’ said Isabella with certainty. She stepped back to admire the orchids as a tiny man came striding across the hall towards her. He was dressed in a suit of royal blue with a striped waistcoat and an elegant silver pocket watch hanging by a chain from his buttonhole.

  ‘Miss Isabella, I just received word from the gate house,’ he announced in a thick Icelandic accent. ‘Your guests are crossing the bridge at this moment and I expect them to be at the front door in precisely four and a half minutes.’

  Isabella gasped. ‘Four minutes? That’s not enough time! Where is Aunt Rosemary? Where are my cousins?’

  ‘Your aunt is in the garden planting bulbs,’ answered Levi calmly. ‘Your cousin Miss Adele is in the library with her books and your cousin Master Milo is still in the study.’

  Levi was Sommerset’s new head butler. He had come to the island as a replacement for the previous head butler – a devious scoundrel by the name of Bingle, who had fled under cover of night to avoid punishment for his role in the crimes of his master, Silas. Levi performed his duties as head butler with all the grace and dignity you would expect from a four-foot dwarf with a diploma in hospitality. He was a meticulous keeper of time, fluent in five languages and a black belt in karate.

  ‘Quickly, Levi,’ shouted Isabella, tightening the bow atop her long black hair, ‘go outside and find my aunt. Drag her back here by the legs if you have to. Wait, how is my dress? Do I look utterly perfect?’

  Before Levi could answer the sound of a bicycle bell rang through the entrance hall. Isabella and the butler turned just in time to witness Rosemary Winterbottom cycling through the grand front door
s of Sommerset House and into the hall.

  ‘What a glorious afternoon!’ she sang. ‘I was planting tulip bulbs by the summerhouse and before I knew it the sun had vanished. What a delight!’

  ‘Aunt Rosemary, my guests are on their way up the drive as we speak!’ cried Isabella. ‘You promised you would attend my dinner party – the duchess is expecting to meet the whole family.’

  ‘Relax, pet!’ shouted Rosemary, turning sharply to avoid Thorn, who had settled beside the elevator cage. ‘If you wouldn’t mind hitting the elevator button I will go up to my room, splash some water on my face and be down for dinner before you know it.’

  Levi walked calmly over to the elevator cage and pushed the silver button. The cage, which was up on the fourth floor, began its steady descent.

  ‘But surely you will change your dress?’ said Isabella hopefully, following her aunt as she pedalled across the stone floor. ‘I mean, you will not come down to dinner looking like that, will you?’

  The that which Isabella was referring to was a faded blue and yellow summer dress which hung on Rosemary’s chunky frame like a potato sack.

  Rosemary let out a chuckle. ‘Of course not!’ she promised loudly, tearing past Isabella at great speed. ‘That’s why I cut this!’ She waved a large red rose above her head. ‘Isn’t it glorious? It called to me from the flowerbed. With this in my hair the baroness will be dazzled.’

  ‘She’s a duchess!’ shouted Isabella.

  ‘Oh,’ said Rosemary with a giggle. ‘Well, all the same.’

  ‘Aunt Rosemary,’ pleaded Isabella, ‘these are very important people and you look like a gypsy.’

  The elevator came to a smooth stop and the gilded silver and gold bars parted.

  ‘Wonderful people, gypsies!’ declared Rosemary, turning the bicycle and pedalling straight at the elevator. ‘I spent eight months travelling around Romania with a whole clan of them. Tremendous fun!’