The Fabulous Phartlehorn Affair Read online

  Before Bruno had time to observe any more, heavy clogged footsteps sounded down the corridor ahead of him. Quickly, he jumped away from the keyhole and scrambled out through the tapestry curtain.

  On his journey back to the North Tower, Bruno paused to inspect several suits of armour, an old spinning globe and a large stuffed tiger. By the time he arrived back at the dormitory, he had quite forgotten about the mystery of the knights and their fireworks.

  “Hey,” said Grace as Bruno entered, “how was your lesson?”

  Shafts of sunlight streaked across the carpet. Grace, Natasha and Xanadu were sitting together on a pile of cushions beside the window. Their faces glowed in the light as they chattered like old friends. Bruno felt a pang of jealousy. Why was Grace so chummy with them all of a sudden?

  “Fine, thanks,” he said a little coolly and slumped down onto his four-poster bed. “How was yours?”

  “It was brilliant!” enthused Grace, coming over to sit next to him. “I know I wasn’t sure about phartistry to begin with, but the duke is a really inspiring teacher. Did you know that the phartlehorn is thought to be oldest instrument in the world? Well, anyway, first I learnt the solo from The Magic Phartlehorn. Then he taught us all this piece by Tchaikovsky where we got to pretend to be canons. Oh, and I even managed to practise my Phartesian.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Bruno, still sulky. “Let’s hear some, then.”

  “Tu isicus stillamus mea besticus amigo!” said Grace, then added quietly, “It means ‘you’re still my best friend’, silly.”

  “Oh right,” said Bruno, blushing. “I knew that.”

  A day of non-stop music seemed to have put everyone in a good mood. Xanadu leapt up from the floor. “Who wants to hear this track I’ve been thinking of for my next album?”

  The others watched, baffled, as Xanadu knocked his knees together and shuffled his feet apart.

  “Why are you standing like you need a pee?” asked Natasha.

  Xanadu didn’t answer. Instead he reached down for his phartlehorn and swung it up and over his head.

  As you’ve probably realized by now, one of the big differences between a phartlehorn and a normal wind instrument is that it’s possible to sing with your mouth while playing one. It was this difference that Xanadu took advantage of now. (Although, between you and me, “sing” might be an over-generous description in this case.)

  As he trumped out the tune on his phartlehorn, Xanadu squeaked and ground his way through a love song like a car struggling to change gears.

  Bruno put his fingers in his ears. “Stop,” he begged. “I can’t take any more!”

  “Please,” squealed Grace, “my tummy’s hurting.”

  “I think I’m going to choke,” spluttered Natasha, hiccuping through her nose.

  Xanadu pulled off his instrument with a huff. “Well, I’d like to hear you lot try. Bruno couldn’t even get a peep of a phartle out at the audition!”

  “Oh yeah?” said Bruno, jumping to his feet. “Just listen to this!” He grabbed his own instrument and yanked it down around his body. Then he took a deep breath in before blowing out as hard as he could. The other children were startled into silence. To tell you the truth, even Bruno was a little surprised at the power of the music that now began to erupt spontaneously from his instrument. It was as if the melody emerged from somewhere deep inside. He did not need to think. All he had to do was relax and let the music flow out of him. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself serenading the countess on a starlit beach, the notes from his phartlehorn rising up from the depths of the ocean that lapped at their feet. The other children held their breath as Bruno pressed down on the lowest key.

  KABOOM!

  The phartle was deeper than the bass on a gangster’s car stereo. The walls of the castle shook in its wake. Bats flapped from the battlements. Gargoyles crumbled. Water sploshed from the moat below. From out of the forest came the sound of a hundred Trumpenhunde, baying in wild delight.

  All around the castle, the residents of Phartesia abandoned their tasks. The cooks in the kitchen, the grooms in the stable, Monsieur Zidler in the dungeons, the duke and his moustache-bearers in the lavatory. All of them stopped to listen as Bruno’s phartle rumbled on and on.

  The countess and Humbert both heard it up in her music room. Immediately deserting her pupil, Countess Strudel ran towards the source of the exquisite explosion. When Bruno eventually opened his eyes, he found himself flat on his face at her feet, like a sinner bowing before his queen.

  The countess was looking down at him in astonishment. Behind her, Bruno could just about make out the stunned face of the duke. Strudel reached down a lily-white hand to help him up.

  “The boy’s a genius!” she gasped. “Father, he has to become our new solo phartiste!”

  23

  An Unofficial Mission

  A neon-orange sunset lit up the Mediterranean. The journey from South London by rubbish truck had taken almost twenty-four hours, with Chippy warbling “Ten Green Bottles” all the way. By the time they pulled up outside the Hotel Magnificent, even Grandpa Trevor had begun to lose patience.

  Getting Chippy in through the revolving glass door proved to be a tricky business, but eventually the old man managed it. Now he looked around the sparkling lobby in wonder. Mr and Mrs Chalk hovered uncertainly behind him. To think that their daughter had stayed in a palace like this! For a while the three of them just stood there in silence. They had set off full of pluck and courage, but now they’d reached the hotel, no one seemed sure what to do next. The other guests were eyeing Mr Chalk’s grubby overalls with suspicion. Mrs Chalk pulled her duffle coat tight about her chest.

  Finally Chippy broke the silence. “Is there any room at the inn?” she squawked from Grandpa Trevor’s shoulder.

  He stroked her wing to quiet her. “Shhh! You’ll get us thrown out!” But the parrot had sparked an idea in Mrs Chalk.

  “The rooms!” she exclaimed. “We should start by having a look at the children’s rooms! Didn’t Miss Goodwin say they were on the third floor? Maybe there’ll be a clue up there.”

  No one could think of a better plan, so they all bundled into the lift. Just as the doors were about to close, the group was joined by a glamorous young woman in high heels and a bikini. She leant forward and pressed the button marked PENTHOUSE SUITE. Blimey, thought Grandpa Trevor, wondering vaguely if he’d seen her on the television. Mr Chalk’s eyes were almost popping out of his head.

  “Goodness,” he murmured as his wife nudged him out onto the third floor and the lift doors closed behind them. “Wasn’t that…?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Chalk with a sigh, “it was that young starlet, Desiree Draws. As you can see, she is ninety five per cent recyclable plastic. That was what you were gawping at, wasn’t it, dear?”

  Mr Chalk nodded meekly as they set off down the corridor. Almost immediately their progress was halted by a barrier of yellow police tape.

  “I’m sure this doesn’t apply to relatives,” said Grandpa Trevor, ducking underneath it and striding on.

  The children’s rooms had not been touched since the day of their disappearance, and it didn’t take long to work out which had been Bruno’s. The floor of Room 308 was littered with dirty socks and pants. Damp towels had been left to fester on the bed. Comic books and crisp packets were strewn across the sofa. Tears welled in Grandpa Trevor’s eyes. There was no mistaking it, his grandson had been here. Chippy pecked affectionately at the old man’s neck.

  “I know,” said Grandpa Trevor. “You miss him too.”

  Mrs Chalk appeared in the doorway, red-faced with excitement. “I think I’ve found something. Look!” She held out a small white card. “It was in Grace’s blazer pocket. The police probably didn’t think to look, but I know that’s where she always tidies things away.”

  Grandpa Trevor hurriedly wiped his nose on his sleeve. He took the card from Mrs Chalk.

  “Monsieur Zachary Zidler,” he read uncertainly. “Impre
sario.”

  Mrs Chalk was already reaching into her pocket for her mobile phone. Her hands shook as she scrolled through her contacts and pressed dial. It took less than a second for the person on the other end to answer.

  “Agent Frogmarch? This is Penelope Chalk. My husband and I are at the Hotel Magnificent with Trevor Pockley… Yes, I know we’re not supposed to be in France… Now, there’s no need to shout… We think we’ve found a clue! A business card belonging to a man named Monsieur Zachary Zidler… No, I’ve never heard of him before… No, no, it’s not like Grace to talk to strangers.”

  An hour later, a large black helicopter touched down on the forecourt of the Hotel Magnificent. Grandpa Trevor’s three grey hairs blew up from his head as he ran towards the whirring blades. Mr and Mrs Chalk were right behind him.

  Agent Frogmarch hauled herself out through the roof like a genie struggling to escape from a bottle.

  “Just give me one reason,” she bawled, “why I shouldn’t have you lot court-marshalled! Meddling in the investigations of Her Majesty’s Secret Service is a treasonable offence!”

  The two men stared down at the ground like a pair of naughty schoolboys. Perched on Grandpa Trevor’s shoulder, Chippy hung her beak in shame. Only Mrs Chalk found the courage to look the special agent in the eye.

  “We couldn’t just sit at home doing nothing,” she protested.

  “But that’s exactly what I wanted you to do!” shouted Agent Frogmarch. “Luckily for you, your meddling might just have been useful. Otherwise I’d have you all banged up in the tower!”

  Mr Chalk didn’t like to ask which tower. He scuffed his shoes against the concrete. “Useful?” he said, without raising his head. “In what, erm, way?”

  The special agent jumped down from the helicopter and began to pace back and forth in front of them.

  “I’ve run Zidler’s name through my intelligence database. It turns out that his passport is registered to a little-known Alpine kingdom called Phartesia. It’s been on my suspicious list for a while.”

  “Phartesia?” repeated Grandpa Trevor. “Well, I’ll be blown. In all my days as a sailor, I’ve never heard of it.”

  The special agent glared at him. “Phartesia is landlocked, you fool. Didn’t they teach you geography at school? It’s surrounded by land, not sea.”

  Mrs Chalk put a reassuring hand on Grandpa Trevor’s arm. “Well, I’ve never heard of Phartesia either,” she said, “and I backpacked all across Europe before I had Grace.”

  Agent Frogmarch cracked her knuckles. She was starting to get impatient. “That sounds very intrepid, Mrs Chalk, but you can’t backpack into Phartesia. Its borders are closed to foreign visitors and heavily guarded with troops.”

  “Permission to ask, erm, a question,” said Mr Chalk.

  Agent Frogmarch grunted something which sounded like approval.

  “You don’t think, do you,” said Grace’s father, “that Phartesia might, erm, be the stronghold of the Knights Trumplar?”

  The special agent flinched. Her tongue flicked around her lips like a toad preparing to catch a fly. “Have you been hacking into my emails, Mr Chalk?”

  “Erm, no,” he replied. “It’s just that, well, the name Phartesia — it does, erm, sound a bit like those phartlehorns you were telling us about at the meeting…”

  His voice was crushed to a whisper under the weight of Agent Frogmarch’s stare. “Not just a pretty face, are you, Julian?” she said.

  Mr Chalk blushed. “I, erm, well, thanks…”

  Agent Frogmarch made a spectacularly strained attempt at a smile. She threw one muscular arm around Grandpa Trevor and the other around both of the Chalks.

  “It has occurred to me,” she said, drawing them in closer, “that the three of you might be useful to operations after all. My first thought was to parachute into Phartesia myself. But the cretinous head of French secret services has banned it. Apparently one of his agents has already infiltrated the Knights Trumplar and he feels the situation is under control. Bah! As if I’d ever leave the rescue of British citizens to the French! The problem is that if I go in now, it could cause a diplomatic incident…”

  She paused, chewing over the possibilities in her mind.

  “But I could send you lot in on an unofficial mission instead. Mrs Chalk’s idiotic comment about backpacking has given me an idea. You could go in undercover tonight as a party of gormless hitch-hikers who’ve lost their way. You’re just about intelligent enough to pull that off, I think. Your task would be to locate the stronghold of the Knights Trumplar and gather intelligence which could be useful to a British invasion.”

  Chippy yodelled with excitement.

  Agent Frogmarch released her new recruits from her grip. “Obviously the parrot will have to stay at home,” she said.

  Grandpa Trevor folded his arms across his belly. “Where I go, Chippy goes,” he said. “Besides, we’ll cover more ground that way. Back in my naval days, I used to send her ahead to scout for land.”

  Chippy fluttered off into the nearest tree, then quickly returned with a palm frond in her beak. “Land ahoy! Land ahoy!” she declared, dropping it at Agent Frogmarch’s feet.

  Now it was Mrs Chalk’s turn to object. “I’m sorry to sound negative, Trevor, but don’t you think a bright blue parrot might attract a bit of attention in the Alps?”

  Grandpa Trevor flashed a tobacco-stained smile. “I’ve thought of that. I’m not just a pretty face either, you know, Penelope. If we can go in disguise, then why can’t Chippy?”

  “Twit-twoo,” hooted the parrot. “Twit-twoo.” Agent Frogmarch’s eyes had narrowed to slits. She thrust out a fleshy pink hand and grasped the parrot’s claw.

  “Welcome to Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Agent Chippy. Right then, everybody into the helicopter! There’s a secret British intelligence base thirty-two kilometres away from the border with Phartesia. We’ll stop off there for your briefing.”

  24

  Dinner with the Duke

  Back at the Castle Mistral, Bruno had been honoured with an invitation to dine alone with the duke in the state dining room. Well, not quite alone, for of course the trusty moustache-bearers were there too. They stood behind the duke’s throne-like chair, ensuring that the Royal Moustache was kept well clear of his dinner. A crackling fire had been lit in the grate. Shadows danced on the walls, lending movement to the portraits that hung all around the room.

  Bruno nervously inspected his cutlery, wondering which of the five silver spoons he was supposed to use. He was a little surprised to note that while he’d been served his normal helping of Stunkenstew, the duke was tucking into a rosy pink lobster.

  “I don’t know how you can stomach that disgusting stuff myself,” he remarked, pointing at Bruno’s bowl.

  “But I thought Stunkenstew was a Phartesian delicacy,” said Bruno.

  One of the trusty moustache-bearers was coughing loudly. He leant forward and whispered something into the Royal Ear. The duke flushed.

  “Oh!” he burst out. “Is that Stunkenstew you’re eating? Why, of course that’s my absolute f-f-favourite! Alas, doctor’s orders mean boring old lobster for me.”

  Bruno was more puzzled than ever. Surely the smell of Stunkenstew was unmistakable? Especially for someone who’d lived in Phartesia all their life. The duke hastily changed the subject.

  “I only wish,” he said, tearing off a lobster claw and sucking out the flesh, “that my great-great-great-grandfather Leopold was still alive to hear you phartle. That’s him in the painting over there: the one with the magnificent nose.”

  Magnificent was one word for it, thought Bruno. The man’s nose was turned up at the end like a drainpipe. The long black nostrils were flared and seemed almost to twitch in the flickering firelight.

  “In Leopold’s time,” the duke continued, “Phartesia was more powerful than either America or China is today. What we lacked in territory, we made up for in influence. People would pay vast sums to attend one
of our concerts. Leopold’s daughter received no f-f-fewer than f-f-fifteen proposals of marriage, eventually wedding the brother of the King of England. Two hundred years later and look at us! Ever since the prudish ban on phartistry, the world has shunned us. We Knights Trumplar must operate our f-f-fame f-f-factory in secret in order to survive. Do you have any idea how many TV talent shows are run from the west turret of this very castle? How many glittering pop careers we secretly control? Of course not! F-f-for we can only take the money, while others take the glory.”

  So that was what the knights got up to in their office, thought Bruno, suddenly remembering what he’d seen through the keyhole. But what about the fireworks they’d been cutting open? What were they for? Before he had a chance to ask, the conversation had moved on.

  “Money is all very well,” continued the duke, “but without glory, how am I supposed to f-f-find a suitable husband for Strudel? This, Bruno, is where you come in!”

  Bruno’s heart leapt. Surely the duke couldn’t mean he wanted him to marry Strudel? He was just a boy. But no, of course that was not what the duke meant at all.

  “You, Bruno, can help us to reclaim that long-lost glory. When you explode onto the stage, people will have to take notice! Over the years, our secret gala concerts have been gaining in popularity. Each year in May we invite a select handful of celebrities and politicians to Phartesia. These are people who can have anything they want. Pet tigers! Baths of champagne! Holidays in outer space! But soon they grow tired of the shiny baubles of success…”

  At first Bruno found this hard to believe — but then he thought of Natasha and how bored she always seemed and he saw the truth in the duke’s words.

  “Weary of ordinary f-f-forms of entertainment, these celebrities begin to seek out more extreme sources of pleasure. In phartistry, they f-f-find at last what they are searching for! What sweeter music can there be than the sound of a young boy blasting his guts up into the sky?”