His Name Was Walter Read online

  His spine tingled. He had no more doubt. This bird could help him, if only he could make it understand.

  ‘I need to see the Lady Abby, Sparrow,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Could you bring her to me here? Could you?’

  The sparrow fluffed its dull brown feathers as if it were cold or sad. He almost thought it shook its head.

  ‘Please!’ Walter begged, leaning forward and forgetting to keep his voice down. ‘I have come a long way to find her. I have things to tell her and to give her — for her mother’s sake.’

  There was a blur of fluttering wings and the sparrow was gone.

  Walter slumped back against the tree trunk, deeply disappointed, certain he had frightened the bird away. The trailing fronds of willow whispered around him as a light breeze ruffled the skin of the river.

  Then he heard the tiny snap of a twig. He looked around quickly, but could see nothing. There was another tiny sound, very near. And then the rustling veil of willow fronds parted, and a slender figure emerged from the flickering green shadows and stood silently watching him.

  Colin glanced at Tara, found her waiting patiently, and turned the page. He heard her take a quick, horrified breath and his stomach knotted in revulsion as he saw the picture that began the next section. Against a background of sun-browned grass and bright blue sky, a bulky, grotesque-looking woman was shouting and shaking her fist. The woman was dressed all in black except for an apron made of coarse sacking. Her tiny eyes glared red, her pointed teeth shone yellow, and spittle sprayed from her gaping mouth. She was incredibly ugly, but the ugliness had as much to do with the spite and cruelty that radiated from every line of her twisted face as with the features of the face itself.

  The picture had been painted with loathing. Its power was tremendous, but it made Colin sick to look at it.

  This is a fairytale, he reminded himself. It’s only a fairytale!

  Realising that Tara had already begun reading, he forced his eyes away from the horrible picture. He cast his mind back to the peaceful riverbank, where Walter had just seen the figure emerge from the willows — the figure who had to be Magda’s daughter, Abby.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Walter scrambled to his feet. He saw the pale, pointed face of the portrait glimmering beneath the hood of a long brown cloak. He saw feathery brown hair and dark, wary eyes.

  He tried to speak, but he could only stare. Cool fingers seemed to be brushing the hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck. Twenty years had passed since the portrait was painted, but Abby looked not a day older.

  Then the waiflike figure took a tiny step forward, the green shadows moved, and Walter’s eyes cleared.

  This was not Abby. This girl was like Abby — very like — but her hair was several shades lighter, her eyes were less gentle, her nose was finer and her mouth was wider and firmer. She did not have Abby’s flower-like prettiness, but her face was full of character, and to Walter it was achingly beautiful.

  As he gazed at the vision, tongue-tied, something sharp pierced the shell around his heart, pierced it deeply, and he knew that another of Magda’s prophecies had come true. He felt suddenly dizzy, and put his hand against the tree to steady himself.

  ‘Abby’s daughter,’ he said aloud. The girl did not speak. She looked down at the locket in Walter’s hand, then looked up at his face again and waited.

  Instinctively Walter closed his fingers around the locket. Uppermost in his mind was the thought that he was honourbound to keep Abby’s secret, even from this girl he had loved at first sight.

  ‘I-I am sorry to have disturbed you,’ he stammered, hardly knowing what he said. ‘It was your mother I came to see.’

  The girl bent her head. The hood of her cloak hid her face and she made no sound, but Walter could feel her loneliness and grief as if they were his own. The willows whispered and the cold truth came to him.

  ‘Abby is dead,’ he said.

  The girl gave a tiny nod and Walter thought she sighed, though it might have been the sad sighing of the willows he could hear.

  He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her as no one in his life had ever held him. He wanted it more than anything in the world.

  But he hesitated, unable to speak, afraid to frighten her, afraid to move.

  A harsh cry, a summons, came floating down from the palace hill. The girl’s head jerked up, her eyes alert and even darker than before. She looked full at Walter and pressed a slender finger to her lips, warning him to silence. Then she turned and began to glide away.

  ‘Wait!’ Walter whispered urgently.

  The girl glanced back over her shoulder. She was still poised for flight. One small hand clutched a hanging willow frond. The other held the edges of her cloak together against her chest, and for the first time Walter saw that she was wearing tight, fingerless grey gloves. Her delicate face was still shadowed by the hood, but Walter could see that it was tense with anxiety.

  ‘I must see you again,’ he said. ‘I must! If I ask at the palace gates, will the griffins—?’

  The girl half shook her head. Now her eyes were definitely frightened. Was she frightened for herself, or for Walter?

  ‘Here, then, by the river,’ Walter said quickly. ‘I have no more food, so I will have to find work and a place to stay, but as soon as I can, I will be back. Will you look for me here?’

  Was that a very slight nod? Walter thought so.

  ‘My name is Walter,’ he said softly, and his heart seemed to take wing as the pale lips curved in a smile.

  The harsh, summoning cry came again, closer now, and angrier, too. Walter glanced in the direction of the sound. He heard a tiny rustle, and when he looked around again he was alone beneath the willow tree. The girl had gone.

  For what seemed a long time Walter stayed where he was, pressed against the tree trunk, while the leafy green curtain around him whispered and billowed in the breeze. Then abruptly the wind died, and all was still except for the faint sounds of a rough voice grumbling on the palace hill and a carriage rattling over the bridge.

  He put the locket back into his pocket, slung his knapsack over his shoulder and scrambled cautiously up the riverbank. Before climbing out onto the road, he peeped through the willow’s drooping canopy and over the wall that separated the palace hill from the river.

  A hulking woman dressed in black — the palace housekeeper, Walter guessed — was stamping back up the gravel drive towards the palace door. She was muttering angrily to herself, but Walter could hear no words, only snatches of grunting sound.

  Suddenly, as if she sensed that someone was watching her, the woman stopped and swung round. Walter almost choked in horror as he saw her face.

  The housekeeper was an ogress. Her tiny eyes gleamed red as they raked the hill, searching for signs of movement. Her powerful hands twitched by her sides as if eager to take someone by the throat. Her heavy lower jaw jutted out aggressively, showing a jagged row of yellow teeth, and her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air.

  Walter stayed still as a stone. He felt cold as a stone, too, though beyond the shade of the riverbank the road was shimmering with heat. It seemed to him that it was only a matter of time before those red eyes picked him out among the willows.

  He was afraid for himself, but more afraid for the girl who had just left him. Perhaps, as the daughter of a rich nobleman, she was forbidden to wander beyond the palace walls, let alone talk to strangers. Certainly her father must be very strict, as well as proud. The girl’s severely plain clothing, the tight gloves, the long, concealing cloak and hood worn despite the heat of the day, showed that well enough.

  And now that she had lost her gentle mother, she had no one to speak for her. She was under the heavy hand of her ogress guardian while her father was away from home. No wonder she had seemed so nervous and fearful. No wonder she had fled when she heard that angry call.

  The ogress tilted her head as if she were listening, then abruptly swu
ng round to the palace again and looked up.

  Walter followed the direction of her eyes and saw, behind the bars of a small window in a tower room, the shape of a pale, pointed face looking down.

  It was Abby’s daughter, he was sure of it! But how on earth had she managed to get back inside so quickly?

  The ogress put her hands on her hips and made a sound like the snort of a pig. Then she lowered her head and stomped into the palace, slamming the door behind her.

  His mind in turmoil, Walter crept up to the road and walked briskly on towards the town, trying to look as if he had just crossed the bridge. He glanced casually at the palace as he passed, as would be natural, and saw — or thought he saw — a face pressed to the bars of the tower room window, and a fluttering movement as if a hand had been raised in farewell.

  The sight tore at his heart, but he knew better than to let his gaze linger on the window too long. He made himself turn his head away almost instantly, and strode on at a steady pace as if he had nothing on his mind but the long, cool drink he would have when he reached the town ahead. He did not look at the griffins as he swung by the iron gates, but he could feel their cold stares like twin knife blades grazing his cheek.

  ‘Okay?’ Colin breathed, and at Tara’s sober nod he turned the page, bracing himself for what he might discover.

  With relief, he saw a lively painting of a plump red hen wearing a flowered apron. One wing spread wide in welcome, the hen was standing in the doorway of a tall, narrow house that opened onto the footpath of a bustling street.

  The scene looked so real that Colin felt he was standing on the doorstep of the house himself. He could almost smell the flowers blooming in the green tub by the door, almost hear the clucking of the red hen inviting him in. He found himself smiling as he turned to the text on the opposite page.

  The haughty grimness of the palace, the rage of the ogress, the ferocity of the griffins and the sadness of the girl by the river had made Walter expect the worst of the town that Abby’s noble husband ruled.

  He thought it would be a stern, unfriendly place, but to his surprise it was not. It was called Long Rest, and was as pleasant as its name. Graceful old buildings lined the wide streets, which were shaded by spreading trees. Flowers bloomed in well-kept parks and gardens. People smiled at Walter when they met his eyes. Dogs did not bark at him. Shopkeepers standing at their doors nodded politely as he passed.

  It will not be hard to stay here, Walter thought. It was a great stroke of luck, because whatever Long Rest had been like, he would have had to find a way to live and work in it if he was to see Abby’s daughter again. And since those few moments by the river, seeing Abby’s daughter again had become the great aim and purpose of his life.

  So when he reached the town’s grand, stone treasure house, and saw a discreet notice in the window reading ‘Junior Clerk Wanted’, Walter swallowed his horrible memories of the counting-house cavern, took his courage in both hands and went in to apply for the job.

  He was prepared for anything, but in fact the treasure house was as different as possible from the counting house. It was light and cool, echoing with the sounds of tapping feet and low voices, and polished clean from its marble floor to its high, white ceiling. The clerks standing at the cash desks serving customers were dull, quiet sheep, but they wore no chains. There were no bats rustling in the corners, either.

  Walter’s spirits rose, but he was in for a shock. After he had been interviewed by Master Podge, the pink and ponderous pig who was the senior clerk, he discovered that, in a way, he had entered the lion’s den. The great man who ruled the treasure house was the man who ruled the town. He was Lord Vane, the owner of the palace on the hill.

  By the time Walter discovered this, it was too late for him to escape. Before he could do more than wonder at the fate that had brought him to this place, he was being ushered into the presence of Lord Vane himself.

  After what he had seen earlier that day, he was ready to loathe the man, but found he could not. In fact, quite soon, he found himself sharing the awe and respect with which the other treasure-house servants regarded their master.

  Lord Vane was tall, handsome and dignified, with a solemn but benign manner guaranteed to put other people at their ease. He had a fine head of iron-grey hair, a well-trimmed grey moustache and piercing blue eyes. So impressive was he, in fact, that Walter found himself beginning to doubt his own feelings about the palace on the hill, and to suspect that heat and homesickness had affected his judgement, making him see evil where only good existed.

  Stammering a little, Walter told Lord Vane that he was good at sums, could write neatly and would work hard. All those things were the perfect truth, and Lord Vane seemed to sense that, because having briefly tested Walter’s skills he agreed to give him a trial, starting the following day.

  It is more than possible, however, that Lord Vane’s shrewd eyes saw a little more than Walter suspected. Perhaps Lord Vane could tell that although Walter was telling the truth, he was not telling the whole truth. This could have been why Walter was given his chance so readily, despite having nothing but the most basic identity papers and no proof of previous experience. Lord Vane had ruled his domain for a long time, and knew that people with something to hide did not cause trouble, asked few questions, and did not complain about low wages.

  Walter’s timid appearance and manner probably helped, too. Lord Vane preferred underlings who did not have too much confidence in themselves. It made them easier to rule.

  He gave Walter a note for the landlady of a boarding house in the main street, and by evening Walter was settled in a clean little attic that was the cheapest room in the place. The landlady was a plump red hen who bustled and clucked up and down the stairs, keeping her beady eyes on everything and everyone. After reading Lord Vane’s note, she had agreed to wait for payment until Walter received his first week’s wages, but Walter knew that she would keep a sharp eye on him till she had the money safely in her claws. The landlady thought a great deal of Lord Vane, but even he, she thought, could be deceived.

  ‘His Lordship’s a fine man,’ she told Walter. ‘He’s done a lot for this town, and he’s so good himself that he believes the best of everyone. It would be a wicked shame to let Lord Vane down. He has had enough sad trouble as it is.’

  ‘What trouble?’ Walter asked, without thinking.

  ‘Family trouble!’ The landlady snapped her beak. ‘Nobody’s business but his!’

  Walter ducked his head, murmured something about stretching his legs, and went out into the street.

  He walked quietly through the town, smiling shyly at people who smiled at him, and thought furiously all the while.

  Family trouble, the red hen had said. Did this mean that Abby had at last grown tired of keeping her gift hidden, and had let it show in some way that had caused scandal in the town? Was this why, now that Abby was dead, proud Lord Vane kept her daughter hidden away from the world?

  It could be.

  Strolling through the pleasant, ordered streets, Walter remembered a cracked voice mumbling as eyes searched the palm of his hand.

  You will free a prisoner …

  Yes, Magda, he thought to himself. I will.

  Colin felt Tara waiting for him to go on, but he hesitated. ‘So Walter’s protected a friend and fallen in love and now he’s going to free the princess in the tower,’ he whispered. ‘What were Magda’s other prophecies again?’

  ‘Champion the weak,’ Tara breathed, her eyes on the book. ‘Save a life. Keep faith. Be killed by an enemy.’

  Colin winced. He didn’t want Walter to die. ‘Maybe it won’t work out that way,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe there’ll be a trick at the end, so he won’t die at all.’

  ‘If Walter didn’t die, the story wouldn’t have been written, and we wouldn’t be reading it,’ Tara said seriously. ‘There’d have been no need.’

  She returned Colin’s startled stare with that same sad but defiant look she’d given
him when she claimed something bad had happened by the dining-room door. Then, as Colin swallowed, not knowing what to say to her, she shook her head almost angrily.

  ‘You can feel it — I know you can!’ she whispered. ‘Why don’t you admit it? Can’t you hear the whistling?’

  She’s saying the book’s bewitched, Colin thought blankly. She really believes it.

  He felt a stab of panic. With it came the impulse to snap the book shut and thrust it deep into his sleeping bag, out of Tara’s sight. Then the impulse vanished, overwhelmed by a soft but insistent tingling in his fingers that made him long to turn to the next page.

  And at the same time, the strange little melody he thought he’d noticed in the whistling of the wind drifted back into his mind and circled there like the memory of something he’d heard in a dream. His face began to burn.

  ‘There!’ Tara breathed. ‘Oh, Colin, please! Before we run out of time!’

  Colin’s stomach felt queasy as he let his tingling fingers turn the page. There was a dark picture. He caught a single glimpse of a savage, brutish face, heard Tara give a muffled whimper, and resolutely tore his eyes away.

  This time he wasn’t going to be drawn in by the picture. He had to go on with the story.

  CHAPTER

  12

  The next morning, which was Friday, Walter began work at the treasure house. He was given simple tasks at first, and did them far too slowly because he was afraid of making mistakes. Master Podge snuffled and grunted around him, explaining everything twice over and making Walter more nervous than ever. After an hour, however, Master Podge was called away by Lord Vane, and once he was on his own Walter’s work improved, so the day ended far more happily than it had begun.

  ‘Well, young man,’ said the red hen at the boarding house as she placed a well-filled dinner plate before him that evening, ‘you did splendidly today, I hear!’