Read Online The People in the Castle: Selected Strange Stories by Joan Aiken - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joan Aiken
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“That’s genuine, all right,” he said. “It’s quite something you’ve got there. First production of the original Shakespeare play by W. P. Slockenheimer.”
“Well, will you swap?” asked Wil once more.
“I’ll say I will,” exclaimed Mr. Slockenheimer, slapping him thunderously on the back. “You can keep your mouldering old barracks. I’ll send you twenty seats for the premiere. Robin Hoode by Wm. Shakespeere. Well, what do you know?”
“There’s just one thing,” said Wil, pausing.
“Yes, Bud?”
“These contracts you gave my uncle and aunt and the others. Are they still binding?”
“Not if you don’ t want. ”
“Oh, but I do—I’d much rather they went to Hollywood.”
Mr. Slockenheimer burst out laughing. “Oh, I get the drift. Okay, Junior, I daresay they won’t bother me as much as they do you. I’ll hold them to those contracts as tight as glue. Twenty years, eh? You’ll be of age by then, I guess? Your Uncle Umbert can be the Sheriff of Nottingham, he’s about the build for the part. And we’ll fit your Aunt Aggie in somewhere.”
“And Buckle and Squab?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Slockenheimer, much tickled. “Though what you’ll do here all on your own—however, that’s your affair. Right, boys, pack up those cameras next.”
Three days later the whole outfit was gone, and with them, swept away among the flash bulbs, cameras, extras, crates, props and costumes, went Squabb, Buckle, Aunt Agatha, Uncle Umbert, Cousin Cedric, and all the rest.
Empty and peaceful the old house dreamed, with sunlight shifting from room to room and no sound to break the silence, save in one place, where the voices of children could be heard faintly above the rustling of a tree.
Furry Night
The deserted aisles of the National Museum of Dramatic Art lay very, very still in the blue autumn twilight. Not a whisper of wind stirred the folds of Irving’s purple cloak; Ellen Terry’s ostrich fan was smooth and unruffled; the blue-black gleaming breastplate that Sir Murdoch Meredith, founder of the museum, had worn as Macbeth held its reflection as quietly as a cottage kettle.
And yet, despite this hush, there was an air of strain, of expectancy, along the narrow coconut-matted galleries between the glass cases: a tension suggesting that some crisis had taken or was about to take place.
In the total stillness a listener might have imagined that he heard, ever so faintly, the patter of stealthy feet far away among the exhibits.
Two men, standing in the shadow of the Garrick showcase, were talking in low voices.
“This is where it happened,” said the elder, white-haired man.
He picked up a splinter of broken glass, frowned at it, and dropped it into a litter bin. The glass had been removed from the front of the case, and some black tights and gilt medals hung exposed to the evening air.
“We managed to hush it up. The hospital and ambulance men will be discreet, of course. Nobody else was there, luckily. Only the Bishop was worried.”
“I should think so,” the younger man said. “It’s enough to make anybody anxious.”
“No, I mean he was worried . Hush,” the white-haired man whispered, “here comes Sir Murdoch.”
The distant susurration had intensified into soft, pacing footsteps. The two men, without a word, stepped farther back in the shadow until they were out of sight. A figure appeared at the end of the aisle and moved forward until it stood beneath the portrait of Edmund Keane as Shylock. The picture, in its deep frame, was nothing but a square of dark against the wall.
Although they were expecting it, both men jumped when the haunted voice began to speak.
“You may as well use question with the wolf
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb. . . .”
A sleeve of one of the watchers brushed against the wall, the lightest possible touch, but Sir Murdoch swung round sharply, his head outthrust, teeth bared. They held their breath, and after
“That’s genuine, all right,” he said. “It’s quite something you’ve got there. First production of the original Shakespeare play by W. P. Slockenheimer.”
“Well, will you swap?” asked Wil once more.
“I’ll say I will,” exclaimed Mr. Slockenheimer, slapping him thunderously on the back. “You can keep your mouldering old barracks. I’ll send you twenty seats for the premiere. Robin Hoode by Wm. Shakespeere. Well, what do you know?”
“There’s just one thing,” said Wil, pausing.
“Yes, Bud?”
“These contracts you gave my uncle and aunt and the others. Are they still binding?”
“Not if you don’ t want. ”
“Oh, but I do—I’d much rather they went to Hollywood.”
Mr. Slockenheimer burst out laughing. “Oh, I get the drift. Okay, Junior, I daresay they won’t bother me as much as they do you. I’ll hold them to those contracts as tight as glue. Twenty years, eh? You’ll be of age by then, I guess? Your Uncle Umbert can be the Sheriff of Nottingham, he’s about the build for the part. And we’ll fit your Aunt Aggie in somewhere.”
“And Buckle and Squab?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Slockenheimer, much tickled. “Though what you’ll do here all on your own—however, that’s your affair. Right, boys, pack up those cameras next.”
Three days later the whole outfit was gone, and with them, swept away among the flash bulbs, cameras, extras, crates, props and costumes, went Squabb, Buckle, Aunt Agatha, Uncle Umbert, Cousin Cedric, and all the rest.
Empty and peaceful the old house dreamed, with sunlight shifting from room to room and no sound to break the silence, save in one place, where the voices of children could be heard faintly above the rustling of a tree.
Furry Night
The deserted aisles of the National Museum of Dramatic Art lay very, very still in the blue autumn twilight. Not a whisper of wind stirred the folds of Irving’s purple cloak; Ellen Terry’s ostrich fan was smooth and unruffled; the blue-black gleaming breastplate that Sir Murdoch Meredith, founder of the museum, had worn as Macbeth held its reflection as quietly as a cottage kettle.
And yet, despite this hush, there was an air of strain, of expectancy, along the narrow coconut-matted galleries between the glass cases: a tension suggesting that some crisis had taken or was about to take place.
In the total stillness a listener might have imagined that he heard, ever so faintly, the patter of stealthy feet far away among the exhibits.
Two men, standing in the shadow of the Garrick showcase, were talking in low voices.
“This is where it happened,” said the elder, white-haired man.
He picked up a splinter of broken glass, frowned at it, and dropped it into a litter bin. The glass had been removed from the front of the case, and some black tights and gilt medals hung exposed to the evening air.
“We managed to hush it up. The hospital and ambulance men will be discreet, of course. Nobody else was there, luckily. Only the Bishop was worried.”
“I should think so,” the younger man said. “It’s enough to make anybody anxious.”
“No, I mean he was worried . Hush,” the white-haired man whispered, “here comes Sir Murdoch.”
The distant susurration had intensified into soft, pacing footsteps. The two men, without a word, stepped farther back in the shadow until they were out of sight. A figure appeared at the end of the aisle and moved forward until it stood beneath the portrait of Edmund Keane as Shylock. The picture, in its deep frame, was nothing but a square of dark against the wall.
Although they were expecting it, both men jumped when the haunted voice began to speak.
“You may as well use question with the wolf
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb. . . .”
A sleeve of one of the watchers brushed against the wall, the lightest possible touch, but Sir Murdoch swung round sharply, his head outthrust, teeth bared. They held their breath, and after
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