of white, wiry hair. The row of music teachers standing behind him looked apprehensive. Dr Saltweather was just as likely to shout at them as the children.
‘Do you call that singing?’ roared Dr Saltweather. ‘It’s a horrible moan. It’s a disgraceful whine. You’re musicians, for goodness sake. Sing in tune, give it some life! Now – back to the beginning, please!’ He nodded to the small orchestra at the side of the stage and raised his baton.
Charlie cleared his throat. He couldn’t sing at the best of times, but today the assembly room was so cold he couldn’t stop his jaw from shaking. The temperature had affected the other children as well, even the best singers were hunched and shivering under their blue capes.
They started up again, and this time Dr Saltweather couldn’t complain. The old panelled walls vibrated with sound. Even the teachers were doing their best. Merry Mr O’Connor threw back his head and sang heartily, Miss Chrystal and Mrs Dance smiled and swayed, while old Mr Paltry frowned with concentration. The piano teacher, Mr Pilgrim, however, did not even open his mouth.
Charlie realised that Mr Pilgrim was not standing up. He was next to Mrs Dance, who was extremely small, and being very tall himself, it was not immediately apparent that he was still sitting down. What was wrong with him? He never looked you in the eye, never spoke, never walked in the grounds like other teachers. He seemed to be completely unaware of his surroundings, and his pale face never showed the slightest flicker of emotion.
Until now.
Mr Pilgrim was staring at Charlie and Charlie had the oddest sensation that the teacher knew him, not as a student, but someone else. It was as if the dark, silent man was trying to recognise him.
There was a sudden, violent crack from beyond the window. It was so loud they could hear it above their boisterous singing. Even Dr Saltweather paused in his conducting. Another crack resounded over the snow outside, and then a tremendous thump shook the walls and windows.
Dr Saltweather put down his baton and strode to one of the long windows. When some of the children followed he didn’t bother to stop them.
‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Dr Saltweather. ‘Snow’s done for the old cedar!’
The huge tree now lay halfway across the garden; its branches broken and its tangled roots pulled clear of the ground. There was another crack as a long branch supporting the crown of the tree finally broke and, with a dreadful groan, the trunk sank into the snow.
So many games had been played under its sweeping branches, so many whispered secrets kept safe by its wide shadow. Now it was gone, and in its place there was only a wide expanse of snow and an unbroken view to the ramparts of the ruined castle. Snow encrusted the top of the walls and clung to the uneven surfaces, but the blood red of the great stones stood out ominously in the white landscape.
As Charlie stared at the castle walls, something happened. It could have been a trick of the light, but he was sure another tree, smaller than the cedar, appeared in the arched entrance to the castle. Its leaves were red and gold and yet other trees had lost their autumn colours.
‘Did you see that?’ Charlie whispered to Fidelio.
‘What?’
‘A tree moved,’ said Charlie. ‘Look, now it’s standing by the castle wall. Can’t you see it?’
Fidelio frowned and shook his head.
Charlie tried to blink the tree away. But when he looked again, it was still there. No one else appeared to have seen it. Charlie had a familiar fluttery feeling in his stomach. It always happened when he heard the voices, but this time there had been no voices.
A bang from the stage made him look back. Mr Pilgrim had got to his feet, very suddenly, knocking over his chair. He gazed over the heads of the children, into the garden beyond the window. He could have been looking at the fallen tree, but Charlie was sure he was staring past to the red walls of the castle. Had he seen the strange, moving tree?
Dr Saltweather swung away from the window. ‘Next hymn, children,’ he said as he marched back to the stage. ‘You’ll never get to your classes at this rate.’
After assembly, Charlie had his lesson with Mr Paltry – Wind. Mr Paltry was an impatient, elderly flautist. Teaching Charlie Bone to play the recorder was like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it, he complained. The old man sighed frequently, polished his glasses, and wasn’t above whacking the recorder while Charlie was in mid-blow. Charlie reckoned that if Mr Paltry continued attacking him in this way, he would eventually lose his teeth and then perhaps he would be released from his horrible music lessons.
‘Go, Bone, go!’ Mr Paltry grunted after forty minutes of mutual torture.
Charlie went, very happily. Next it was on with the wellingtons and out into the snowy garden. In cold weather the children were allowed to wear their capes outside; in summer, capes had to be left in the cloakroom.
Fidelio was late arriving from his violin lesson, so when the two boys finally ran outside, the snow had already been trampled by three hundred children. Snowmen were being built, snowball fights were in progress, and Mr Weedon, the gardener, was trying to shoo children away from the fallen tree.
‘I want to see something by the castle,’ Charlie told Fidelio.
‘You said you didn’t want to go near it,’ his friend reminded him.
‘No, but . . . it’s like I said, I saw something. I want to know if there are any footprints.’
‘OK.’ Fidelio gave a good-natured shrug.
As they ran past the fallen cedar, Billy Raven called out, ‘Where are you going, you two?’
Almost without thinking, Charlie shouted, ‘None of your business.’
The albino scowled and shrank against the dark branches of the tree. His ruby-coloured eyes flashed behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
‘Why did you say that?’ Fidelio asked as they hurried on.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s something wrong with Billy Raven. I don’t trust him.’
They had reached the entrance to the ruined castle. The snow beneath the huge arch was clear and smooth. No one had been in or out of the ruin.
Charlie frowned. ‘I saw it,’ he murmured.
‘Let’s go in,’ said Fidelio.
Charlie hesitated.
‘It doesn’t look so bad in daylight,’ said Fidelio, peering through the arch. He bounded in and Charlie followed. They tramped across a courtyard and took one of the five passages that led deeper into the ruin.
After several minutes of shuffling through the dark, they emerged into another courtyard. That’s where they saw the blood. Or something like it. A few deep red flecks lay in the snow besidea patch of red-gold leaves.
‘The beast!’ cried Charlie. ‘Let’s get out.’
It was only when they were standing safely outside the walls again that Fidelio said, ‘It might not have been the beast.’
‘There
