Gabriel stepped back to get a better view, and now he noticed that the eyes seemed wrong. There was no light in them. It was as if the man’s spirit had left the painted face.
A cold shudder ran down Gabriel’s spine. It was dark in the passage. There were no lights, no sunlit windows. Had he imagined the sudden bright glint on the gold sword-hilt? Was the lack of light in the man’s eyes or merely Gabriel’s own shadow? No. There was something different about this painting. The name on the bronze plaque at the base of the frame read Ashkelan Kapaldi. The plaque had come loose, it hung at an angle and there were fingerprints on the shiny surface of the paint. Someone had touched the portrait very recently; pressed and prodded it repeatedly.
‘Gabriel Silk, what are you doing?’ Manfred’s voice came ringing down the corridor of portraits.
Gabriel turned guiltily, although, as far as he knew, he had nothing to feel guilty about. He must make sure that Manfred didn’t guess what was on his mind. The Talents Master had been using hypnotism a great deal recently.
‘What are you doing here?’ Manfred came up to Gabriel and stared at him.
‘Nothing, sir.’ Gabriel looked away from the narrow black eyes. Beneath his black cape, Manfred was wearing a bright green waistcoat. Surprising for one who was usually so soberly dressed.
‘Nothing?’ The Talents Master glared at Gabriel, forcing him to look up. ‘Nothing?’
Gabriel felt dizzy. ‘Going to a music lesson, sir,’ he said faintly.
‘Go then! And stop hanging about!’
Gabriel was about to turn away when he saw two figures coming down the corridor behind Manfred. One of them was limping, the other lurching. Gabriel’s eyes widened in surprise, for the limping man bore a strong resemblance to the man in the portrait: Ashkelan Kapaldi.
The surprise in Gabriel’s eyes caused Manfred to whirl round. ‘Go!’ he shouted at Gabriel. ‘This instant!’
Gabriel walked away quickly, but not so quickly that he didn’t hear the Talents Master say, ‘It’s not wise, sir, for you to leave the west wing during the day. Pupils will recognise you . . . and wonder.’
‘Let them wonder.’ The stranger’s voice had a foreign lilt. ‘Let them be amazed . . .’
‘It’s not the time, Ashkelan.’ This second voice had a cavernous, echoing sound. Something in the ebb and flow of it reminded Gabriel of Dagbert Endless. He hastened into the hall, which was full of children on their way to different classrooms. Occasionally someone would whisper to a companion, while glancing anxiously about in case a prefect was watching. Silence in the hall was the rule.
Gabriel spotted Charlie’s wild mop of hair. He wore a slight frown and his thoughts were obviously miles away. Gabriel waved, trying to get Charlie’s attention, but Charlie didn’t see him. And then Dagbert Endless walked between them. He followed Charlie doggedly across the hall and into the passage that led to Señor Alvaro’s music room. Gabriel pursued them.
Safely out of the hall, Gabriel called, ‘Charlie!’
Dagbert swung round and snapped, ‘What do you want?’
Gabriel was momentarily taken aback by Dagbert’s sharp tone. ‘I want to speak to Charlie,’ he said.
‘Hi, Gabe!’ Charlie had noticed Gabriel at last. ‘What is it?’
Gabriel saw that Dagbert wasn’t going to leave them. ‘It’s nothing,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll catch you later.’
Charlie watched Gabriel slouch away, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets. Obviously he didn’t want Dagbert to hear what he had to tell Charlie.
‘Why d’you keep following me?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Shouldn’t you be in a lesson?’
Dagbert shrugged. ‘I’ve lost my flute. I thought Señor Alvaro might have it.’
‘Why? Mr Paltry teaches flute.’ Charlie walked faster, trying to shake Dagbert off.
Dagbert caught up with him. ‘OK. The truth is . . . my father’s here.’
‘I know,’ said Charlie irritably. ‘We’ve been through that. What d’you want me to do about it?’
‘I want you to keep my sea-gold creatures for a while.’
‘What?’ Charlie stopped dead in his tracks. He could hardly believe his ears. ‘Are you seriously asking me to keep something that you almost k–’ he quickly corrected himself, ‘something that you drowned Tancred for taking?’
‘I’ve told you,’ Dagbert said desperately. ‘I didn’t mean to drown him. It was an accident.’ He dug into his pocket and brought out a handful of tiny charms: five golden crabs, a fish and a miniature sea urchin. ‘Please, keep them safe for me.’ He held the charms out to Charlie. ‘My father’s looking for them.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t explain right now.’ Dagbert pushed the charms at Charlie.
Charlie stepped back. ‘Why me?’
‘You’re the only person I can trust.’
Charlie found this hard to believe. ‘What about your friends: Joshua, Dorcas, the twins? What about Manfred?’
Dagbert shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, no.’ He grabbed Charlie’s wrist and attempted to press the charms into his hand. ‘Please!’
‘No.’ Charlie snatched his hand away and the sea-gold creatures spilled on to the floor. The sea urchin rolled towards Señor Alvaro’s door which, at that very instant, began to open.
Señor Alvaro stood in the doorway regarding the sea urchin at his feet. He gave it a small kick.
‘No!’ Dagbert pounced on the charm as it rolled across the floor. ‘You could have broken it.’ He hastily gathered up the five crabs and the golden fish as well and shoved them into his pocket.
‘What’s going on?’ Señor Alvaro frowned at the wall behind the boys. It was now a rippling bluish-green; silvery bubbles rose from a shell that floated just behind Charlie’s ear, and fronds of seaweed waved gently from the skirting board.
Charlie glanced at the scowling Dagbert. ‘It’s what happens, sir,’ he told the music teacher. ‘He can’t help it.’
‘Can’t help it?’ Señor Alvaro raised a neat black eyebrow. He was young for a teacher and his clothes were always interesting and colourful. He had permanently smiling brown eyes, a sharp nose and shiny black hair. He didn’t appear to be too surprised by the watery shapes on the wall.
As Dagbert shuffled away, the weeds and shells and bubbles gradually faded, and the wall took on its usual greyish colour.
‘Come in, Charlie,’ said Señor Alvaro.
Charlie always enjoyed his music lessons now. He knew he wasn’t talented but Señor Alvaro had convinced him that music could be fun, as long as you blew with conviction and hit the right notes, more or less. Charlie had even managed half an hour’s practice the previous evening, and Señor Alvaro was pleasantly surprised.
‘Excellente, Charlie!’ The music teacher’s Spanish accent was soft and compelling. ‘I am astounded by your improvement. A little more practice and that piece will be perfect.’
The lesson was at an end but Charlie was reluctant to leave. Señor Alvaro was one of the few teachers at Bloor’s whom Charlie felt he could trust. He had an overwhelming