The Fabulous Phartlehorn Affair Read online

  Bruno shivered. For the first time since his audition, he felt scared. There was a wild, unhinged look in the duke’s eyes. His hands waved about as if he was juggling with invisible knives. For a moment, Bruno considered the possibility that the duke was mad and all his promises of fame and fortune a fantasy. It was too horrible a thought to contemplate, however, so Bruno did what many of us are inclined to do when faced with a terrifying truth. He pushed it straight to the back of his mind. The duke was just passionate, that was all.

  Still, Bruno was relieved when the duke stopped talking, picked up a flute from the mantelpiece and blew out the opening three bars of The Magic Phartlehorn.

  “Strudel tells me she’s taught you this already,” he said. “Might you be so kind as to duet with me now?”

  “Of course!” said Bruno, and reached for his phartlehorn, which was resting on a chair beside him.

  The duke closed his eyes. With a little bouncing nod of his head, he began to play The Magic Phartlehorn again. Bruno waited for the distinctive trill of notes that signalled for him to join in, then, summoning everything he had inside, he blew out into his instrument. a sublime smile spread across the duke’s face. For a fleeting second Bruno saw there a resemblance to his beautiful daughter.

  As if to challenge Bruno, the duke’s playing became faster and faster. Bruno matched him with ease. The phartles popped out of him at machine-gun speed. Parp. Parp. Parp. Parp. Parp. Parp. Parp. Parp. Parp. Parpagena.

  The melody danced in the air around them. Then the duke trilled out a final flourish on his flute and the music was over. “Quite remarkable! I’ve only one f-f-further piece of advice.”

  “Yes?” ventured Bruno nervously.

  “Do not change a single thing. Play exactly like that at the concert and you will go down in history as the greatest phartiste the world has ever known.”

  Bruno was speechless. Rarely did he even get a tick in the margin of his homework, let alone a compliment like this! Suddenly he remembered Grandpa Trevor’s words when dropping him off for the school trip: “One day you’ll be more famous than everyone else at this school put together.”

  Bruno couldn’t wait to tell him he’d been right!

  25

  Four Go Undercover in Phartesia

  Grandpa Trevor counted to ten, then pulled down on the chord of his parachute. He opened his eyes, daring, for the first time, to look down at the ground rushing up to meet his feet. It was difficult to see in the dark, but he could just make out the silhouettes of Mr and Mrs Chalk floating below. He heard a rustle of silk, then felt the weightlessness as his parachute billowed open.

  “Wahoooooo!” he cried with a mix of joy and panic as he tried, desperately, to steer himself towards a gap in the trees.

  “Twit-wahoooo!” echoed Chippy, swooping down alongside him.

  The old man landed with a thud beside the Chalks. He lay on the grass, arms thrown back over his head, panting.

  “Blimey!” he gasped. “I haven’t felt that alive since nineteen sixty-nine! I’ve got blood rushing to bits of my body I’d forgotten existed!”

  Mr Chalk decided it was time for a hasty change of subject. “Anyone for a cup of tea?” he asked, pulling out a thermos.

  The three of them were dressed in bobble hats and Gore-tex jackets. They wore stout walking boots and knee-high socks held up with garters. Thanks to Scotland Yard’s experts in avian disguise, Chippy had been transformed from a blue-and-yellow parrot into a tawny owl. While the others struggled to put up the tent in the dark, Chippy flew off into the forest to practise her hoot.

  “There we go,” said Mr Chalk, banging in the final peg. “That should do it! I think it looks rather cosy.”

  Awooooooo, awooooooooo.

  Mr Chalk dropped his mallet on his toe. He hopped around the tent, groaning and cursing. “Blasted boxer shorts!” he shouted. “What was that?”

  Awooooooo, awooooooooo.

  There it was again: a wild baying sound coming from deep in the forest.

  “Chippy?” called Grandpa Trevor. “Is that you?”

  Awooooooo, awooooooooo, awooooooo, awooooooooo.

  “Stop it at once, you naughty bird!” the old man warned. “You’re supposed to be an owl, not a werewolf!”

  Hooting with indignation, Chippy floated down from her perch on a nearby pine tree. “Twit-twoo,” she hooted. “Twit-twoo!”

  Mrs Chalk frowned. “I don’t think it was Chippy. That noise was further off. Hang on a minute, this might help.”

  She reached into her backpack for Agent Frogmarch’s briefing notes, then scanned down the pages with her torch. Since no one from British intelligence had managed to penetrate Phartesia in a hundred years, the notes were based on historical accounts of the kingdom and were quite old-fashioned — but, still, they were better than nothing.

  “Aha! Here’s what we need: Wild Animals of Phartesia.”

  “What does it say?” asked Grandpa Trevor, peering down into the puddle of yellow light. “See anything that fits the bill?”

  “Well it wasn’t a marmoset,” said Mrs Chalk, “or a roe deer or a fox or a rabbit. And it definitely wasn’t a hedgehog! So, according to this, it can only have been … a Trumpenhund!”

  “A Trumpenhund?” repeated her husband. “What the blinking heck is that?”

  Mrs Chalk read aloud from the notes: “Originating from the remote mountains of Phartesia, the Trumpenhund is the world’s rarest breed of dog. Instantly recognizable by its enormous nostrils and shaggy white beard, the Trumpenhund is prized by the Knights Trumplar for its exceptional olfactory abilities.”

  “Exceptional olfactory abilities.” Grandpa Trevor scratched his head through his hat. “You’ve lost me. What does that mean?”

  “It means it has a really good sense of smell,” explained Mr Chalk. “I wonder what they use it for? Hunting rabbits, perhaps?”

  Mrs Chalk read on in a grim voice. “Whilst famous for its loyalty to its master, the wild Trumpenhund is a truly dangerous beast. At the turn of the last century, it was estimated that three hundred of the creatures roamed free in the forests of Phartesia. Nobody knows how many of these terrible creatures might still be living there today. Uncorroborated reports suggest that their jaws are strong enough to savage a bear with a single—” She flipped off her torch. “Best I don’t read any more.”

  “Curse that helmet-haired woman!” Mr Chalk burst out. “I bet that story about the French banning her from coming here was just an excuse. If you ask me, she’s plain scared!”

  Awooooooo, awooooooooo, came the sound from the forest.

  26

  The Hexagonal Chamber

  Bruno lay wide awake in bed replaying the day’s events over and over in his mind, like a film in which he was the star. Thinking too hard about the duke’s strange behaviour at dinner made him feel uneasy. Instead he focused on his lesson with the countess and his surprise promotion to solo phartiste. To his relief, Grace had confided that since she’d never wanted to be famous anyway, she didn’t mind giving up the role.

  From across the room there came a rustle of covers, followed by the pad, pad, pad of bare feet on wooden floorboards. Bruno rolled over just in time to see Humbert slipping out through the door.

  Where was he going? The bathroom was in the other direction, so that couldn’t be it. Bruno threw back his covers and scurried across to Grace’s bed.

  “Wake up,” he whispered, gently shaking her shoulders.

  Grace rubbed her eyes. “What is it?” she groaned.

  “Shhhh…” Bruno raised his finger to his lips. “Humbert’s sneaked off somewhere. I’m going to follow him. Find out what’s he up to. You coming?”

  Grace shoved back her covers, fully awake now. “You bet!”

  Careful not to wake the others, Bruno and Grace crept out into the corridor. At night, the castle was a cold and forbidding place. Moonlight streamed in through the archers’ windows, casting long shadows on the ground. The only sound to
be heard was the distant baying of Trumpenhunde in the forest below. Humbert was nowhere to be seen.

  “Which way do you think he went?” asked Grace, baffled.

  They were standing on a small stone landing. Directly in front of them was the staircase that led down into the dining hall. Off to their right was the corridor that led to the west turret and the offices of the Knights Trumplar. To their left was the corridor that led to the duke’s quarters in the East Tower.

  “Er, that way?” suggested Bruno, pointing left.

  “That’s my hunch too,” said Grace.

  So off they set towards the East Tower. They had barely gone two metres, however, when Bruno jumped backwards in fright. A huge figure loomed out of the moonlit gloom, wielding an axe.

  “It’s only a suit of armour, you numpty,” said Grace. “Perhaps I’d better go first.”

  It wasn’t long before they reached the end of the corridor. A heavy tapestry curtain, similar to that which Bruno had crept through earlier in the day, hung across the entrance to the East Tower. Grace pulled back a corner of the fabric then slipped through. Bruno followed. The curtain closed behind them with a swoosh.

  No moonlight shone into the windowless space beyond. It took a moment for the children’s eyes to adjust. Then they froze.

  Slouched in a chair opposite was a high-ranking knight. His moustache trailed down to the floor, where Bruno could just about make out the silhouette of a quietly slumbering Trumpenhund. The knight’s head was tipped back at an uncomfortable angle. For a second, Bruno wondered if he was dead, but then his head jerked forward and he let out a mighty rumbling snore.

  “He’s fast asleep,” Grace said softly. “Let’s get going before he wakes up!”

  Bruno expected her to head back through the curtain, but instead she struck out towards the sleeping knight.

  “W-w-what are you doing?” he whispered.

  “I can see a staircase.” She pointed into the gloom. “Over there, behind his chair.”

  Reluctantly, Bruno followed as Grace hopped over the knight’s trailing moustache, tiptoed past the slumbering Trumpenhund and began to descend the stairs.

  If it had been dark at the top, halfway down the spiral staircase it was darker still. Bruno held on tight to the banister as the steps grew cold beneath his bare feet. It felt as if they were descending to the centre of the earth.

  “Ouch!” said Grace, stopping suddenly.

  In the darkness she had stumbled face first into a wooden door. A flicker of light glowed around the door frame. Determined to prove that he could be brave, Bruno tried the handle.

  To his surprise the door creaked open, revealing a large hexagonal chamber. The room was empty, but someone must have visited recently, for freshly lit candles burned in candelabras on the wall. In the centre of the room was a round stone table encircled by thirteen golden chairs.

  Tentatively Bruno stepped in over the threshold, with Grace following close behind. Bruno took a candle from its holder, and together they began to look around. The walls were lined with rows and rows of black-and-white photographs. Curious, Bruno lifted the candle to the nearest picture. Five children with buck teeth and pudding-bowl haircuts grinned out at him. They were posing outside the castle with their phartlehorns. A neatly printed inscription read: SUMMER 1978.

  “These must be photos from previous concerts,” said Bruno, turning to Grace. “There are hundreds of them.”

  “One for every year?” she suggested.

  For a while they wandered idly about the chamber inspecting more of the photographs.

  “What do you reckon happened to them?” mused Grace. “You’d think that if there were this many trained phartistes in the world, it would be hard to keep secret.”

  “Who knows,” said Bruno. “Maybe they just hang out with each other being rich and famous. Look, this one’s different. Here they’re not just posing, they’re playing.”

  Grace peered over his shoulder. “They look even more swollen than we do after a bowl of Stunkenstew,” she observed.

  Bruno held up the candle to the next photograph. He let out a gasp of shock. “They’re not just swollen! They’re going up in puffs of smoke!”

  Grace snatched the candle from his hand. “What? Let me see!”

  Bruno was right. Phartlehorns were hurtling through the air. Where there should have been children, there was nothing but wispy clouds of smoke. In the Royal Box, a younger duke was clapping wildly. A very young Monsieur Zidler, unmistakable with his oiled black hair and a Trumpenhund at his side, had his arms thrown back, his face bathed in ecstasy. The Countess Strudel, aged about five or six, was doing a jig of joy.

  Bruno and Grace retreated slowly from the photographs.

  “M-m-maybe it was an accident?” stammered Bruno.

  “Uh-uh.” Grace shook her head. “You saw the audience. They weren’t panicking. They were celebrating!”

  She swept the candle around the room. Bruno took another sharp intake of breath. There were dozens of photos all showing the same thing. Children evaporating into puffs of smoke! The audience ecstatic!

  Suddenly the duke’s words began to ring in Bruno’s ears. Blown away by the boy’s talent… Explosive performance… Your name blasted into the stars…

  To Bruno’s dismay, he realized that the clues had been there all along. He’d simply been too dazzled by compliments to hear them. Most painful of all came the memory of the countess sitting at her piano. Such a brief moment in the sun, before it’s all over, she had said. Bruno wanted to kick himself. How could he have been so foolish?

  “Grace!” he exclaimed. “We’re not here to become rich and famous, are we? We’re here to be…”

  He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

  A moment or two passed and the two children remained rooted to the spot. Then Bruno grabbed Grace by the hand and pulled her towards the door.

  “If the knights catch us here, who knows what they’ll do! We need to get back to the dormitory and warn the others.”

  As fast as they could, the pair ran back up the staircase, their feet pelting against the stone. Halfway up they heard the sound of distant chanting. Grace grabbed at the sleeve of Bruno’s pyjamas.

  “Stop!” she whispered. “Listen!”

  The chanting grew louder and heavy clogged footsteps could now be heard thundering down the steps above them. Bruno looked at Grace: the staircase offered no other way out. All they could do was return to the chamber and search for somewhere to hide there. Hand in hand, they raced back down the stairs and looked around the room in a panic.

  “Quick!” hissed Bruno. “The table!”

  They hurled themselves under … just in time. Then the door opened.

  27

  The Explosive Elixir

  The Grand Council of the Knights Trumplar filed into the hexagonal chamber. From their hiding place the children could see only the knights’ legs, in their turquoise silk tights and pompommed clogs. Once again, they were chanting in unison:

  “Et volcanicus erupticus exquisiticus,

  In revengicus pharticus apocalypsum

  Plus ferocicus que un turnipum

  Childrenicus explodicus annulis.”

  Grace dropped her head into her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to Bruno. “I should have worked out earlier what they were singing. I pretended to understand because I wanted you to think I was better at Phartesian than I really am.”

  Bruno was astonished. Fancy Grace wanting to impress him! But this was not the time to quiz her about it. “You understand now, right?”

  Grace nodded meekly. “Basically, it means we’re history…”

  Bruno squeezed her hand as the Grand Council of the Knights Trumplar took their seats at the table. It was clear that these were very senior knights: their moustaches trailed across the floor like the silvery fronds of a spider’s web. A web on which the children were trapped like flies. All it would take would be for one fidgety knight to st
retch out his legs, or for someone to drop something under the table, and they’d be discovered.

  Someone began shouting in Phartesian. Bruno recognized the pompous voice of the duke. Thankfully, during recent days Grace’s grasp of the language had indeed improved dramatically. She was able to provide Bruno with a pretty accurate translation, which for the sake of time I shall paraphrase for you here.

  “The day after tomorrow,” the duke began, “our famous friends will flock to this glorious kingdom. This is Phartesia’s chance to prove that we are still a force to be reckoned with. I am relying on you, my trusted advisors, to ensure the party goes with a bang!”

  The knights roared with laughter. Grace winced as she relayed the duke’s words to Bruno.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “We’ll be long gone by then.”

  “As always,” continued the duke, “the evening will begin with canapés in the courtyard. The concert will commence with an aria from The Magic Phartlehorn. Then we’ll have an extract from ‘Air on the G String’, followed by the first movement of Wagner’s Ring Cycle. The finale will be a performance of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. The children will phartle the parts of the canons. Boom! Boom! Boom! We will blast them into the sky!”

  The knights stomped their clogs in approval. Grace gave a quick translation. Bruno shivered to think how desperate he’d been to impress the duke only yesterday. How he’d lapped up the countess’s compliments. When all the while they’d been planning on sending him up in smoke!

  The duke’s tone had turned serious.

  “He’s introducing Sir Oswald, his Chief of Security,” explained Grace.

  The knight nearest to Bruno rose to his feet. The pompoms on his shoes were a bright daffodil yellow. He spoke extremely slowly, with long, ponderous pauses.

  “By carelessly kidnapping such high-profile children … Monsieur Zidler has put us all in most grave danger… Kidnap the son of a peasant and no one notices … kidnap a rich man’s son and the whole world takes an interest. As you know, a huge reward has been offered for the children…” Sir Oswald chuckled to himself. “Thankfully our famous friends are far too rich to be tempted by this… More worrying are the rumours circulating on the Internet of a possible rescue attempt.”