The Treasure Beneath the Hill, chapter 4

Grandpa Jack's back door was never opened now, but it gave out onto a back yard with a whitewashed wall and a stone pavement. Grandma used to hang out the laundry there while she was still alive. Dora could just about remember, when she was really little, taking a box of coloured chalks and a stone into the yard one sunny morning, to play a game of hopscotch which involved hopping and skipping through lines of sweet smelling and slightly damp shirts and sheets.

These days the most she ever saw of the yard was glimpse through the little window above the sink. The back door was never opened any more, partly because Grandpa Jack had now acquired an electric tumble drier, thus eliminating the need to hang out any washing; and partly because he had rather eccentrically blocked off the doorway by moving the fridge right in front of it, in order to make room, in the alcove where the fridge used to be, for a great big wooden wine-rack somebody gave him on his birthday. Even more eccentrically, the wine-rack only had two bottles of wine in it, and the rest of it was full of rolls of sheet music.

On a stormy evening, however, when Grandpa Jack was out at one of his choir rehearsals at St Margaret's church, and Dora, having finished her artwork and social media postings for the day, was standing at the sink doing some washing up, she looked out into the back yard because there was a particularly loud gust of wind, accompanied by a furious rattle of raindrops against the window - and there in the half-light and the stormy wind and the drenching rain stood an old-fashioned man, dressed mostly in black but with white lace collar and cuffs. He had shoulder-length grey hair parted in the middle, and a pointed beard on his chin; and when he saw Dora looking at him he beckoned to her.

It gave her quite a turn. She couldn't make up her mind what to do at first, but the man in the courtyard was looking straight at her, and even though he didn't beckon again she felt a growing conviction that she'd have to go out and talk to him. So she shifted the fridge away from the back door, into the middle of the kitchen. It was the first time she'd ever moved a fridge: in fact she wasn't sure that she'd be able to do it: so she was pleasantly surprised to find that it slid across the floor quite easily. She unbolted the door and went out.

It was only when she got outside, and felt the wind blowing her hair around and the rain soaking into her clothes and spattering against the side of her face, that she noticed the man didn't seem wet at all.

'Who are you?' she said, raising her voice because of the turbulence of the storm.

The man didn't raise his own voice in return, yet she could hear him quite clearly, as if he was speaking in a quiet room.

'My name is Thomas Mountford,' he said. 'I'm a ghost.'

The surprizing thing about it, from Dora's point of view, was how unsurprizing it seemed. Her heart skipped a beat, but after that she didn't feel shocked or frightened.

'Oh,' she said. 'Why are you here?'

'They have disturbed me with their digging,' said Thomas Mountford. 'My neighbours and I were sleeping soundly, perhaps we would have slept until the day of judgement, but even the dead are not secure from the meddlesomeness and greed of these people. Do you see this brass ring?'

He pointed to the wall by the back door. Dora looked round, and saw a black ring, which she would never have identified as brass, hanging on the wall about three feet up. As soon as she saw it she remembered it from her childhood. Grandma used to put a tall straight stick through that ring, about six feet high, with one end of her washing-line attached to the top: in fact Dora had always assumed that that was what the ring was there for.

'If you were to tug at that ring and twist it to the left, which is to say anticlockwise, then I could show you a secret,' said Thomas Mountford.

'All right,' said Dora, and she grasped the ring.

'Pull it towards you.'

> She pulled it, but it didn't budge.

'It won't move,' she said.

Thomas Mountford said nothing, but nodded at the ring; so she gripped it with both hands this time, put one foot against the wall, leaned back and pulled with all her might. After a moment it shifted towards her, no more than about half an inch.

'Now twist it to the left,' said Thomas Mountford.

She did as he instructed, and heard a grinding noise behind her. When she released the ring and looked round, there was an oblong gap in the courtyard at Thomas Mountford's feet, with stone steps leading down into it.

'This passage leads to the church,' he said.

'What?' said Dora. 'A proper secret passage?'

'Follow me,' said Thomas Mountford, and led the way down the steps.

At the bottom of the steps Thomas Mountford lit a lamp that was standing in a niche in the wall, then pulled at another metal ring alongside the niche, with the result that there was another grinding noise and the entrance above them slid shut.

'You will notice,' he remarked, 'that up above I was unable to pull or turn the brass ring to open the passage, whereas down here I can pull a similar ring to close it, and I can both light and carry a lamp. That is because we have now passed into the realm of ghosts - or of dreams, if you like - or of magic, if you prefer - where I can meet things on equal terms. You seem to take magical events in your stride, if I may say so.'

'Well,' said Pan, 'I've been turned into a bat and a mouse in the last in the last few days, so I'm getting used to it.'

'I also observe,' said Thomas Mountfield, 'that you were a girl at the top of the steps, but here at the bottom you are a boy.'

'Yes,' said Pan, 'that's been happening a lot too.'

'Ah,' said Thomas Mountford. 'How interesting! All nature is a state of transformation. Observe how the caterpillar transforms to a butterfly, or how the acorn transforms into an oak tree. How life transforms into death, and death transforms back again into life. Some philosphers argue that this process of transformation is one of the deepest secrets of life. Sometimes an interest in transformation is equated with the desire to turn lead into gold, in other words to create wealth out of nothing; but in my experience it is quite the opposite. It is only dull and greedy minds that seek to turn everything they encounter into money, and thereby shut themselves off from the magical nature of existence. To the true philosopher, the real treasure is not gold, but understanding.'

'Yes,' said Pan.

'I am afraid I am boring you,' said Thomas Mountford.

'No, not exactly,' said Pan, 'but I didn't understand much of what you were saying.'

'I beg your pardon,' said Thomas Mountford. 'What I should have said is this: I am pleased to meet somebody who can turn from a girl into a boy.'

'Thank you!' said Pan. 'What a nice thing to say. You're not going to propose marriage to me now, are you?'

'No,' said Thomas Mountford. 'Am I meant to?'

'Well, that's another thing that seems to be happening to me quite a lot recently.'

'I shall restrain myself,' said Thomas Mountford with a smile. 'Shall we proceed?'

And he led the way along the passage.

'Has this secret passage always been here?' said Pan.

'Always is a big word,' said Thomas Mountford. 'It has been here since the war.'

'Which war?'

'The war between Parliament and the Royalists,' said Thomas Mountford. 'Cavaliers and Roundheads, as some call them. Have there been other wars since?'

'Oh yes, lots.'

'Really? Civil wars? Wars on British soil?'

'Well, no, not British people fighting each other. That must have been horrible.'

'It was horrible. I witnessed it. The land was convulsed. And in those days, secret passages and hiding-places were common. First Catholics hid from Protestants, then Protestants hid from Catholics, and then the other way round again. This particular tunnel was built in case the priest needed to escape from his church secretly and quickly. He was a Royalist, and when the Puritans came, his head wasn't safe on his shoulders.'

'Was it you?' said Pan. 'Were you the priest?'

'No, I wasn't the priest. I was the school teacher. I was neither a Royalist nor a Puritan - I thought myself above such things. I was more interested in my researches. It was my brother who was the priest. He was the one the Puritans wanted.'

'Did they catch him?'

'No, he got away. This tunnel helped him to escape from the church, and at the other end of the tunnel was the school house, where I lived, and I helped him to escape again. But then the Puritans came for me.'

'And did you escape?'

'No, I didn't escape. That was how I died.'

'Oh dear!' said Pan.

'Those were angry times,' said Thomas Mountford. 'The Royalists might have been just as bad. I remember the torchlight on their faces, as they hauled me up. So much ill feeling. Yet the same people could doubtless be gentle and loving in a different season.'

'When you come back as a ghost,' said Pan, 'do you come back as you were when you died, or as you were when you were young?'

'What an intelligent question!' said Thomas Mountford, turning to look at him by the light of the lamp. He pulled the lace collar away from his neck. 'Do you see any rope marks on my throat?'

'No,' said Pan.

'Then it seems I have not come back as I was when I died, because they hung me by the neck to kill me. And observe: by the time I died my hair was thinner than this. I believe I have come back not as myself at any specific age, but as my inner self, the self I imagined myself to be. That is how it strikes me. But other ghosts might be different. One would have to meet a number of ghosts, and compare experiences with them. Would that not be interesting?'

'I suppose so,' said Pan dubiously.

'But come,' said Thomas Mountford. 'I am inclined to talk philosophy, and forget the needs of the present moment. We must not dawdle.'

He led the way along the tunnel again.

'Where are we going?' said Pan.

'To the church,' said Thomas Mountford, 'to find a book.'

'You mean a Bible?' said Pan.

'No, this is a book of antiquities.'

'Did you write it?'

'I did not, although I helped it to be written. It was written by a pupil of mine, a dark-haired girl called Bridget, the brightest, quickest creature I ever met. She was the cleverest of all my pupils, at a time when girls weren't supposed to be clever. I hardly taught her anything: all I did was show her how to find things out, and she did the rest by herself. At the time when I died, she was writing a book recording all the fairy-stories and all the antiquities of this parish, and she kept this book in the vestry.'

'Why didn't she keep it in her own house?'

'Oh, her own house wasn't a bookish place. She lived with her uncle the pig man.'

'The pig man!'

'Yes. Well, we always called him the pig man. He had only one pig. My brother took an interest in her book, and since it was partly concerned with the history of the church, he offered to take care of it for her. She used to come and write it in my house, then take it back to the church when she was finished.'

'Why didn't she just keep it at your house?'

'Well, her name was Bridget, and the church is St Bridget's, so it seemed appropriate to keep it there. She came to write in my house, but she took her book back to the church at the end of the day. I watched her write, and sometimes helped her - and sometimes listened to her play the harp, for which she had a gift. I remember those times far more clearly than I remember my own death. Perhaps, when we die, the things that really matter to us are clarified. But we are here,' he said.

The lamplight shone on the end of the tunnel. It ended in a tight little corkscrew stair, only the first few steps of which were visible.

'Now we must be quiet,' said the school teacher, 'in case our enemies are in the church. This stair leads to a secret place behind the vestry wall. And in another secret place, a concealed closet in the opposite wall of the vestry, assuming that it has remained undiscovered all these years, you will find Bridget's book. I will show you where, and how to open the closet, and you must fetch it out, because I am powerless in the world above.'

They climbed up the corkscrew stair, Pan first, trying to step as quietly as he could. It was difficult to see where he was putting his feet, because the lamp behind him threw the darkness of his shadow onto the treads in front of him: but the stair was so steep that he put his hands down on the stone and went up almost as if he was climbing a ladder, feeling his way as he went.

But he hadn't been round more than two or three turns of the corkscrew before he stopped again. He could hear voices from above.

Thomas Mountford spoke in a very quiet voice from behind and below him. 'They are there before us,' he said. 'Let us hope they just happen to be in the vestry, and have not discovered the book.'

They resumed their climb, even more carefully than before, and soon found themselves inside a space like a small cupboard, behind what seemed to be wooden panelling. Little cracks of light crept in through the joins of the wood, and Thomas Mountford doused the lamp. On the other side of the panelling, they could plainly hear the voices of Abner Brown and Sylvia Pouncer.

'There were many of these little nooks and hidey-holes,' said Abner Brown, 'in the days of the Civil War. The Catholics and Royalists used to hide their church silverware and relics from the Puritans, who disapproved of such things and would destroy them if they found them. In some cases the hidden items have remained there right down to the present day, because the men who hid them never had the chance to come back, being either dead or in exile. Unfortunate for them, my dear, but most fortunate for us.'

'How thrilling!' said Sylvia Pouncer.

'So you can imagine how my mind set to work when I happened to knock on this wall and found that it was hollow.'

'Ooh, a secret compartment full of ancient treasure!'

'Just so, my dear, just so.'

'I'm guessing silver candlesticks,' said Sylvia, 'perhaps a crucifix, perhaps a plate, perhaps a chalice...'

'Precisely,' said Abner. 'Those were my own thoughts exactly.'

'How did you get it open?'

'I didn't get it open, my dear Pouncer. I mean I haven't opened it yet. I'm about to open it now.'

'Oh Abner! My darling! This is more and more exciting! A secret closet, and you're about to open it now!'

'Of course, we can't guarantee that there will be anything inside.'

'But there will be, my dearest. I can just feel it. I can feel it in the tips of my fingers.'

Abner rapped his knuckles on the wall. 'Here,' he said. 'This part is solid - and this part is hollow. The difference is quite obvious once you find it.'

'Yes!' Sylvia started to knock on the wall too. 'Oh yes! The sound changes just here. I wonder if there's a secret catch somewhere?'

'There's bound to be,' said Abner Brown. 'You see these carved flowers. You probably touch their petals in a certain order - symbolising the stigmata, or something of that kind - and the door pops open. We could while away a few hours trying, if we were in the mood. But I propose a more direct method.'

They heard a clanking noise, as if he'd just taken something heavy and metallic out of a bag.

'Oh Abner!' cried Sylvia Pouncer. 'You surely can't intend to smash a hole in the wall!'

'I most certainly can.'

'But you're getting me into more and more trouble! How am I ever going to explain this away?'

'We'll make it all good afterwards, never fear.'

'But Abner!'

'Or we can make it look as if someone has broken in here. Now stand back, my darling Pouncer. We don't want you getting hurt.'

'Abner! Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure. Stand aside, my dear.'

A moment later there was a loud thud - then another - then a third, this time accompanied by a splintering noise - then more splintering, and they could hear Abner Brown grunting with effort as he wrenched and prised at the woodwork.

'There!' he panted.

'Let me see! Let me see!' exclaimed Sylvia Pouncer, no longer dubious - in fact almost beside herself with excitement. 'Is that silver? Is it silver?'

'It most certainly is, my dear.' More wrenching and splintering noises.

'A crucifix!' cried Sylvia Pouncer. 'And a chalice! Be careful with them! Pass them to me, pass them to me!'

'And something else,' said Abner Brown, still panting.

'What is it? Let me see.'

'A book.'

'Oh!' said Sylvia Pouncer, unable to conceal her disappointment. 'Probably an old Bible.'

'This doesn't look like a Bible to me,' said Abner Brown.

'Well never mind about it, whatever it is. We can look at it later. Pass me the rest of the silver.'

'Here,' said Abner Brown. 'Candlesticks, a censer, and I suppose this is a jug for the communion wine.'

'Wonderful! What treasures! These must be three hundred years old at least. These candlesticks might be Jacobean.'

'Yes, my darling. You look at those, while I look at this book.'

'I really can't see what's so interesting about that book. It isn't even printed - it's handwritten. What a struggle to read it! You'll destroy your eyes, my dear. What is it, the parish register?'

'Nothing so dull.' Pan could hear the pages of the book being turned. 'It seems to be a collection of folk-lore and... what? - bits of poetry? No, wait a moment. These are transcriptions. I believe some of these are transcriptions of, of...'

'Of what, my darling!'

'Sylvia! Look here!'

'What? What on earth is it? You gave me quite a turn!'

'"Here lies the hoard beneath the hill."'

'It is poetry, just as you said.'

'But don't you recognise it? Don't you see what this is, my dear Pouncer?'

'What? I believe I do recognise it - that is to say, I seem to have heard it before. But please let go of my arm, my darling Abner, you're hurting me.'

'It's the inscription on the flagstone.'

'What? Flagstone? Which flagstone? You don't mean our flagstone? You mean the one in the church, the one that hides the treasure?'

'Exactly. Our flagstone. Our own flagstone in the church, with the worn-out inscription that we can't decipher. Someone read that inscription before it was worn out, hundreds of years ago, and wrote it down in this book.'

'What a piece of luck!'

Abner Brown read from the book:

Here lies the hoard beneath the hill

A curse on them that wreak it ill

Spare ye enow the bag to fill

Of she that walks both fast and still

'What on earth does it mean?' said Sylvia Pouncer.

'I wish I could say, my dear Pouncer. It feels rather like one step forward and two steps back, doesn't it? We now know what the inscription says, but we don't know what it means. "She that walks both fast and still". It's baffling.'

'It's nonsense, I should say.'

'But it must mean something...' He started turning the pages again. 'Look, here's another rhyme.'

'Another one? Let's hope it makes more sense than the last.'

The serpent bites her own tail

Under the hog's mound

But if she emerge as silver and gold

Her venom doth curdle the ground

'Silver and gold!' said Sylvia Pouncer. 'That sounds like more treasure, at least.'

'Look at this drawing,' said Abner Brown.

But Sylvia Pouncer didn't have time to look at the drawing. 'Good heavens!' she exclaimed. 'What on earth is that noise?'

There was a tremendous blundering and crashing from the body of the church. It sounded as if someone was throwing the pews around. Pan and Thomas Mountford could feel the vibrations going through the stonework; and they heard Abner Brown rushing to the vestry door.

'Damn it to hell!' he shouted angrily. 'How did that thing get in here?'

'What is it?' cried Sylvia Pouncer.

'It's a boar! A huge wild boar!'

As he uttered the words there was an enraged squealing roar, Abner shouted 'Look out!', Sylvia Pouncer screamed, and the blundering and crashing seemed to amplify fivefold.

'Now's our chance,' said Thomas Mountford urgently. 'Get the book.'

Pan was never sure whether Thomas Mountford opened the cupboard door, or whether he opened it himself: there was a click, and he found himself in the vestry. He briefly glimpsed a smashed hole in the wooden panelling of the opposite wall; there was complete pandemonium on the other side of a door to his left; and on a table just in front of him was a jumble of silverware and a black book. He grabbed hold of the book and jumped back into the cupboard. The door snapped shut behind him, and he half-fell, half-scrambled back down the stairs into the tunnel below.

The next evening there was a lull in the weather. The wind fell, the air turned warm and humid, and a thick blanket of grey cloud spread across the sky. There was a flare of saffron light as the sun sank. Dora left Grandpa Jack's house and walked down the lane, away from the church, past the vicarage and down to the bottom of the hill. The lane turned muddy and then stopped. To the right was a primary school, with a housing-estate beyond it. To the left was a recreation ground, then a big Tesco's. Straight in front of her, partly hidden by a bank of earth, was a busy main road, with a petrol station and a MacDonald's already lit up on the far side, aggressively commercial. The pavements and grass around both of them were liberally strewn with drinking-straws, foam plastic cups, screwed-up bits of brightly coloured paper and single-use plastic wrappers.

In the recreation ground two boys were skateboarding at the far end; but closer at hand, perched on one of the bottom rungs of the climbing frame, was a girl in a padded jacket.

'Hallo,' said Dora, approaching the girl. 'Are you Citrus?'

'Yeah, hi,' said the girl, standing up, which revealed that she was considerably taller and older-looking than Dora. 'You must be Dora.'

'Yes, I am.'

'Great. Nice to meet you! I'm so glad you could come.'

'Citrus is a cool name,' said Dora.

'Oh, thanks,' said Citrus. 'It's my online name, you know? Like, my handle, I guess. I wanted something a bit alternative. Something with a bit of an edge.'

'Yeah, it's nice.'

'Thanks,' said Citrus again. 'And your stuff's great, you know, all the stuff you post online, all your drawings and designs and stuff, that's why I wanted to meet you. It's so cool! I love it. Where do you get all your ideas from?'

'Oh, I don't know really. Just everything. Things online, things I see around me. Anything really.'

'Yeah, well, I really like it. I've been hearting all your stuff since I found it, and I've put on quite a lot of comments - well, you know I have.'

'Yeah, thanks.'

'Mostly just loads of hearts n big claps n stuff, though. I can never think of what to say.'

'That's okay. It's nice. What about you?' said Dora. 'What kind of thing do you do?'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, do you do any drawings, or anything arty? You don't post anything of your own online.'

'No, not me. I'm not creative, not like you. I'm interested in other people's work, but I'm more into the tech side of things, personally. You know, apps and web development and stuff like that.'

'Oh, cool.'

'Yeah. What a coincidence, though, both of us being in the same town like this! I start following you, and looking at all your stuff, and then it turns out you're just round the corner from me! I couldn't believe it!'

'Yeah,' said Dora, 'but how did you know I was here?'

'Can't remember. You must've mentioned it, you know, in one of your posts.'

'I don't think so.'

'Didn't you post a picture of the church or something? Something I recognised from round here?'

'Not that I can remember.'

'Didn't you mention you were going to be staying with your grandpa for a bit?'

'Oh, maybe I did.'

'Yeah, that was it, I'm sure it was. You said you might not be able to post so much for a week or two, because you'd be staying with your grandpa.'

'But how did you know about my grandpa? How did you know who he was and where he lived?'

'He's the church organist, isn't he? The one who lives next to the old school house?'

'Yes, he is - but how do you know that?'

'Oh, I don't know, you must have mentioned it some time. You definitely must have mentioned it. I picked it up somehow. Do you want to get a milkshake or a MacDonalds or something?'

'I can't be too long,' said Dora, 'because Grandpa'll be back quite soon.'

They trotted across the main road, through a gap in the whizzing traffic, and sat themselves at one of the tables in the MacDonalds. Citrus had a Coke and Dora had a shake: both of them had fries.

'You've got loads of people following you online, haven't you?' said Citrus. 'Really loads.'

'Well,' said Dora, 'there's lots of other people with more than me. You have to keep working at it. But it's starting to build up.'

'Yeah, it really is,' said Citrus. 'Loads and loads of followers. So is that how you're going to make a living?'

'What d'you mean?'

'You know,' said Citrus, 'doing art and stuff, and posting it online, and selling it to people.'

'I don't know,' said Dora, awkwardly. 'Maybe. I suppose that's sort of my ambition. But I'm just kind of trying it out at the moment.'

'Oh, you could do it. I'm sure you could. Your stuff's so popular. I mean, you do sell stuff, don't you?'

'I do sell things sometimes,' said Dora.

'So you do make some money out of it.'

'I do make a bit of money out of it sometimes,' said Dora.

'So you could make a living out of it, couldn't you?' said Citrus.

'Maybe,' said Dora. 'Maybe I could eventually. I couldn't live on what I get from it now. You couldn't feed a mouse on what I get from it now.'

'Ha ha ha!' said Citrus. 'A mouse! Sweet! Like those mice they get in the church.'

'Yes,' said Dora.

'Only they don't get them any more,' said Citrus, 'because they put poison down. They're not sweet really. They're vermin really.'

'I like mice,' said Dora.

'Do you?' said Citrus. 'How odd. Your grandpa must be quite jealous of you, I should think.'

'Why should he be jealous?'

'Well, your art's very popular online. You've got lots of people following you, and you're getting more people all the time. And there he is, playing his organ and conducting his choir, and basically nobody's interested.'

'People are interested!' said Dora defensively.

'Not many people. A few oldies. Less people every year. Every year a few more of the oldies drop down dead, and there's nobody new coming along to replace them, is there? He's playing his organ and conducting his choir, and basically nobody's coming to listen. He's doing it in empty churches. What a complete waste of time! And they're paying him money for that! They're giving him a house to live in, just because of that!'

'That's not what it's like at all!' said Dora, who found that she was liking Citrus less as the conversation went on. 'And anyway, it's not about money or big audiences, not as far as he's concerned. Grandpa doesn't do it because of that. He does it because he loves it, and because he's keeping something alive.'

'Oh, well that's nice,' said Citrus. 'Nice work if you can get it. Nice to be able to do what you love, and keep something alive, even if it doesn't make any money. Most people aren't in that position, are they? I mean look at you. If you want to make a living out of your art, you've got to make sure you stay popular. You've got to keep building up that following of yours. So in a way that puts you in a vulnerable position, doesn't it? You need to stay popular, or you might lose your following. People might turn against you. I mean, what if somebody was to spread a nasty rumour about you, and suddenly people didn't like you any more? What if somebody posted a message online to say that you were a thief? What if somebody posted a message on your account, to say that you went around spying on other people, or stealing valuable books?'

Dora stared at her. Citrus gave a false little smile, then took out her mobile phone and started tapping on it.

'Look, here's your account on my phone now. Here's that picture you just posted, of a couple of birds flying around in the sky, with the moon and some clouds. Or maybe they're bats actually, looking at it again, and maybe that's the church they're flying over. Oh yeah, it's the church up the top of the hill here, isn't it? I didn't see that before. I put a heart on this one just before I came out. But what if I was to put something on it about you being a spy, a peeping Tom, and a thief, stealing other people's stuff?'

'I could block you,' said Dora weakly, with a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach.

'That's true, you can block people,' said Citrus. 'But then they just open up a new account under a new name, don't they? And then they can come back and say the same things again. And that's worse really, because then it seems like there's more than one person saying it.' She put her phone back down on the table. 'Oh yeah,' she said, 'I remember now how I knew you were here. My aunt told me she'd seen you. She said she saw you at your Grandpa's house.'

'Who's your aunt?' said Dora.

'Oh, you must know her,' said Citrus. 'You've definitely met her. She's called Sylvia.'

Dora stood up.

'Yeah,' said Citrus, pushing her hair back behind her ears, 'maybe you'd better get back. Your Grandpa might be home by now. It's been really nice to meet you. Maybe we can do it again some time.'

She held up her hands in front of her face and put her fingers and thumbs together to make the heart sign. Dora pushed her way out of the swing doors with her heart thumping unpleasantly at the base of her throat. She wished with all her might that she'd never agreed to meet Citrus, and that she'd never started chatting to her online. But it was too late now. She felt exposed and violated. Her private world, the world where she felt safe and complete, had suddenly been pulled open, turned upside down and smeared with dirt.

Dora hurried back up the hill towards Grandpa Jack's house. She was bothered and upset, almost unaware of the world around her. But then she noticed three men in black.

Halfway up the lane on the left-hand side was the vicarage, mostly hidden behind a brick wall and a high hedge. As she approached the vicarage she saw the three men coming from the other direction, and they went in at the gate. They were tall and thin, in black coats, with very closely-cropped grey hair. They each stared at her in turn as they entered, and their stares were so direct and intrusive that she stopped in her tracks, not wanting to get any closer to them. As soon as they had gone in she hurried on again; but she looked rigidly in front of her as she passed the gate, in case they were watching her from inside. She could almost feel their eyes clawing at her, like the needle-sharp claws of little birds.

When she got back to Grandpa Jack's house the front door was open, and Grandpa Jack himself was standing in the front hall in a state of agitation.

'The miserable buggers!' he said. 'The rotten buggers!'

'What's the matter, Grandpa?' said Dora.

'Where were you?' said Grandpa Jack. 'Where have you been?'

'I went out for a walk,' said Dora.

'Oh well, I'm glad you weren't here, actually,' said Grandpa Jack. 'You couldn't have stopped them, so it's just as well you were out of the way.'

'Stopped who?' said Dora. 'What's happened?'

'There were three men here when I got back from St Margaret's. They were actually inside the house! Going all round the bloody house, as bold as you like! Apparently they'd been given the key by Sylvia Pouncer. They were going round from room to room, as if they owned the place, going through everything. Not so much as a word of apology. Turning everything upside down. They said they'd come to make an inventory, for when I have to move out.'

He led the way into the music room, and stood looking around. 'Look at it! Look at it! Most of the stuff in here's mine - it belongs to me - it's nothing to do with anybody else. There were a couple of fixtures and fittings here when I moved in, I suppose - that rug for a start - but I could've made them a list if they wanted a list. They shouldn't be allowed to come poking and prying through my stuff the minute my back's turned. It's an invasion of privacy!' He picked up a handful of sheet music from the top of the piano and waved it in the air. 'They've completely messed up all my music! I knew exactly where everything was, and now they've messed it all up! I don't see why I should have to put up with this, just because this house belongs to the church!'

'What did they look like?' said Dora.

'They looked like the bloody secret police or something,' said Grandpa Jack. 'Tall skinny-looking buggers in black overcoats.'

'I think I saw them just now, as I was coming up the hill,' said Dora. 'They were going in through the gate of the vicarage.'

'Hah!' said Grandpa Jack. 'I bet they were! That's just what I'd expect. It's all down to that bloody Pouncer woman and that smarmy friend of hers, Abner Brown. I can't stand the pair of them. I've never had a moment's peace since that woman came here, and he's just as bad.' He went to the sideboard. 'I'm going to have a big glass of red wine,' he said. 'What shall we have for supper?'

'Grandpa,' said Dora, 'if you were friends with someone and somebody else started a bad rumour about them, would you believe it?'

'What do you mean?' said Grandpa, pouring out the wine. 'Have we got any dry roasted peanuts?'

'Well, suppose somebody said something mean about Bill,' said Dora. 'He's your friend, isn't he?'

'Yes, of course he is.'

'Well, suppose somebody said something mean about him, like he'd been stealing things.'

'What, old Bill? Doesn't sound very likely.'

'Well, suppose Sylvia Pouncer told you that he'd been embezzling money from the church for years.'

'I wouldn't believe a word of it. I wouldn't believe anything that came out of that woman's mouth.'

'All right, but what if somebody else was saying it? What if lots of people were saying it?'

'I'd say good luck to him. After the way they've mucked him around over the years, I wouldn't blame him if he did do a bit of embezzling. But he never would.'

'So you wouldn't believe it.'

'Of course I wouldn't. I've known old Bill for years. I know exactly what he's like. If you gave him five hundred pounds he could quite easily drop it down the back of the settee, or give it away to an old tramp, or use it to light the fire at the vicarage, but he'd never deliberately steal it. He couldn't do it. He's not built that way.'

'But it's not like that online,' said Dora.

'What do you mean, online?'

'Well, people who make friends with you online, like all my followers on Blackbirds, they don't really know you properly. They don't know anything about you, not really. So if they hear something bad about you, they'll probably just believe it.'

'Oh well,' said Grandpa, 'I don't know anything about online. It's no good talking to me about online, or any of that sort of stuff.'

'They didn't go upstairs, did they?' said Dora suddenly.

'Who?' 'Those three men.'

'I haven't got a clue. They were downstairs when I got here, but they could have been all round the place by that time. I wouldn't be surprized if they ransacked the fridge. Actually,' he said, 'come to think of it, I think one of them might have been clumping around upstairs. I think he came down when he heard me talking in the hallway. I expect he'd been rooting through my dirty underpants.'

Dora rushed upstairs to her room, and pulled open the bedside cabinet. The book was gone.

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