The Blackhope Enigma (9 page)

“Of course. So do I.” Angus took a small sketchbook from his overcoat pocket. “Go on, have a look.”

Angus’s drawings took Blaise’s breath away. Faces twisted in agony. Figures fought each other. One figure huddled on the ground, maybe not even alive.

“Who are they?” Blaise asked.

“It’s a long story. And we’ve got people to find.” Angus snapped the sketchbook shut and put it back in his pocket. “Shall we move on?”

D.C. Nash stood in front of
The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia
. He had been staring at the painting for what seemed like hours but had not seen the missing kids or the man who had caused his colleague a hospital visit. Nash looked at his watch. Only ten more minutes and then he could go home.

The painting was an anthill of people in endless streets, so how could anybody find four particular figures, even if they were somehow there? All right, no one could explain how Blaise Doran had vanished in front of them, but he couldn’t accept the boy’s explanation of where the kids had gone either. Nothing had moved in the painting while he had been looking at it. That’s what he was going to tell the chief inspector. With any luck, he would never have to look at the painting again.

At the stroke of five o’clock, Nash turned his back on
The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia
, nodded briskly to the guard at the door, and strode out into the corridor. The lights were extinguished, and the heavy door was locked behind him.

The painting was plunged into darkness. But inside the sunny world of its medieval lanes and squares, two figures set off, the big man striding like a general and the boy keeping himself slightly to one side, the better to watch his new companion from the corner of his eye.

S
unni sat up in the feather bed and rubbed her gritty eyes. Her body felt sluggish, and her head ached. She had woken up several times during the night, unnerved by the silence. The thoughts spinning around her brain had been as dark as the bedchamber and almost as suffocating.
We might never get home. We might die here
.

Now the darkness had gone but not the trapped feeling, even though a buttery light beamed onto one of the chamber’s walls. She touched the wall and felt the familiar sensation of cool marble.
Made by the power of the stars
. On a table nearby was a brass tray filled with real bread, fruit, and a jug of milk.
An endless supply of food, thanks to the power of the stars. No wonder Hugo hadn’t wanted to leave
, she thought.

Inko peered into the room and smiled, gesturing at Sunni to eat. He ventured in, carrying their jackets, and draped them over a chair. He was wiry and alert, like a young deer.

“Can you talk?” Sunni asked softly.

Inko shook his head. He smiled at Dean, who was snoring away, his bare feet dangling out of the bed. Sunni tugged one of his ankles, making him groan.

“Get a move on, Dean,” Sunni said. She stuffed some bread into her mouth and washed it down with milk. She was ravenous, not having dared to eat the night before. She grabbed a peach and let Inko lead her down a corridor lined with animal heads.

In the courtyard, Hugo lounged on a couch reading a small book. “Ah, Miss Forrest! I was just enjoying some Tennyson. I hope you slept well.”

Hugo wore a cherry-red coat and tweed trousers. His shoes shone, and one foot was crossed nonchalantly over the other. Sunni was suddenly aware that her hair was probably sticking up and that her school uniform looked like it had never met an iron. She smoothed her hair as much as she could and nodded.

Sitting down on a stool near him, she rolled the peach from hand to hand. “Mr. Fox-Farratt, don’t you have any idea at all how to leave Arcadia?”

“An idea, yes.” Hugo hesitated. “I believe the exit is — I believe it could be some way from here.”

“Would Inko know?”

Hugo smiled. “Inko is a simple soul. He is not interested in hunting for exits. He belongs here.”

“So you’re not sure how Sir Innes got out?”

“No. By the time I arrived here, he was long dead,” said Hugo.

Sunni bit her lip. “Could you show us where you think the way out could be?”

A look of alarm passed over Hugo’s face. He turned the poetry book over and over in his hands. “There are things you don’t understand, Miss Forrest. Last night I told you how il Corvo created Arcadia for Sir Innes. But . . .” His voice trailed off. “I am afraid things have changed here since Sir Innes’s death.”

Just tell me where the exit is
, Sunni wanted to shout, but she waited for him to go on.

“It is not safe to go off searching for things.” Hugo frowned.

“Not safe?” Sunni repeated. “What do you mean?”

But Hugo ignored her question. “As well as this magical work, il Corvo is reputed to have created three other paintings even more spectacular than
Arcadia
— paintings of vast, rich cities where all the knowledge of the ancients was stored in huge palaces.” Her host had his dreamy look again. “The grandest of the paintings was meant to be a gift for Rudolf, the Holy Roman Emperor. It was called
The Chalice Seekers
, and it was said to show a procession of noblemen on horseback, traveling across a mountainous landscape. Below them a dead stag was sprawled at the bottom of a cliff with scavenger birds poised to feed on it. A city lay in the distance, a glowing silver chalice hovering in the sky above it.” Hugo paused and looked intently at Sunni. “It is my belief that these paintings, like il Corvo himself, are here — here in Arcadia.”

Sunni raised her eyebrows. “Why would they be here? Surely they could be anywhere.”

“I very much doubt il Corvo would let them out of his sight,” said Hugo.

“So you think Corvo is here, too? Why?”

“Well, although he was never found, Soranzo’s spies reported several sightings of him.”

“The Soranzo who chased Corvo out of Venice?”

“The same. His spies crawled all over Europe like a creeping plague, and some of them even went to the lands of the Aztecs and Incas,” Hugo said. “One spy said il Corvo went about disguised as a monk in Munich. Others said he became an amber trader in Saint Petersburg. But someone claimed to see him leaving a ship in London and making his way north — to Blackhope Tower, it was deduced. This caused huge excitement. What better place for il Corvo to hide than with his patron Sir Innes?”

“But you’ve never seen him here,” said Sunni. “Have you?”

“There was a moment once when I thought I did, in another — er — part of Arcadia.” Hugo gazed down at the little poetry book in his hand. “But no. Hundreds of years have passed like a fleeting dream, with no sign of Corvo or any of the other magical paintings.”

“Hundreds of years.” Sunni was struck by a terrible thought. “How long do you think Dean and I have been here? A day? A month? Or longer?”

She jumped up and paced around. “What if my dad is already old and I never get to see him again before — before he dies? And my friends, what if they’re not my age anymore?”

“I doubt that. You have only been here since yesterday.”

“But one day here might be a whole month at home.” She sank back onto her stool, dejected. “We have to get home before any more time passes. You’ve got to help us. Please.”

“I suppose I could escort you part of the way,” replied Hugo, looking none too pleased at the thought. “But there is no point in hurling yourselves into the wilds, not knowing who or what may await you. I suggest you stay a day or two in the palace to familiarize yourselves with Arcadia before we set out.”

“Even that feels too long. We need to go now.”

“It would be reckless of me to let you go before tomorrow,” said their host. He pulled a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “It is already four o’clock in the afternoon and will be dark by six.”

“I slept till four?” she asked, astonished.

Just then, Dean half ran, half slid into the chamber.

“Ah, good afternoon, Master Rivers. I was just saying to your stepsister that I would be delighted if you would both stay here for a while,” Hugo said.

“What do you mean, ‘a while’?” Dean exploded.

Sunni held up one hand. “It’s OK. I’ll explain in a minute.” She asked Hugo, “Could you show us around then? After we’ve tidied ourselves up, that is.”

Hugo leaped up from the couch. “Inko, fresh water and soap for our guests. And then I will show you the splendors of our surroundings.”

When Sunni and Dean returned to the bedchamber, he threw his jacket to the floor. “We’re supposed to be getting away, not hanging around with Foxy Farratt! I want to go now.”

“So do I!” Sunni hissed. “But it’s just for tonight. He’ll help us search for the way out tomorrow.”

“He doesn’t even know where it is.”

“I’m not sure what Hugo knows and what he doesn’t,” said Sunni in a low voice. “But he’s not telling us everything. And I want to know why.”

W
hen they finally reached the castle on the hill, Angus shielded his eyes and scanned the city below them.

Blaise pulled a water bottle out of his bag and offered it to Angus. “That sure took a while.”

“Haste makes waste, they say. We owe it to your friends to look everywhere for them.” Angus took a noisy slug and dragged his sleeve across his mouth, sending out a faint whiff of aftershave.

“We’ve seen every street there is,” said Blaise. “Sunni and Dean are nowhere.”

“But they did go through the city and have a bit of fun with the Raven’s masterpiece along the way.”

“You mean the hat on that donkey? And the upside-down dog?” Blaise rubbed water over his face. “I still think they left those as markers to show which way they went.”

“Well, I’ve put them back as they should have been, whether they were markers or not. Can’t have kids messing about with genius,” said Angus, staring at something in the distance. “I spy a cow with a rooster on its back in that pasture. Let’s see if it’s another one of your markers, because I doubt the Raven painted it that way.”

They trudged down the hill toward the outskirts of the city.

“So you and Mr. Bell are both artists?” said Blaise.

“More or less,” Angus said with a smirk. “I’m more of an artist, and he is less of one.” He slapped Blaise on the shoulder. “Only joking. Yes, Lorimer and I went to art school together, to become painters.”

“How come he’s Bell and you’re Bellini?”

“Our great-great-something grandparents came from Italy and settled over here. They shortened their name to Bell, so that’s the name we were both born with. But I changed mine back to its rightful spelling.”

“Mr. Bell’s never mentioned you before,” Blaise said, “or shown us your paintings in class. Sometimes he shows us his paintings.”

A sour expression passed over Angus’s face. “He’s never been too keen on my work. Always was a bit envious of me, but don’t ever tell him I said so.” He shrugged. “We don’t see each other too often these days. I live in Paris.”

Blaise had a mental picture of Angus cruising past the Eiffel Tower in a fast car with a glamorous woman at his side. “So you happened to be visiting when we disappeared?”

“Yes,” said Angus. “Naturally I offered to help find you.”

Naturally. You decided to rescue some kids you don’t even know
, thought Blaise. “Lucky for us that you were around.”

Angus smiled. “And how could I refuse the chance to be in a painting made by my idol?”

Blaise smiled back. “Your idol, huh?”

“Since I was eighteen, Corvo’s the man I always wanted to be like. Not only an artist with the paintbrush, but also with the rapier and the sonnet. Women swooned over him, men envied him, and royalty craved his company, as well as his paintings,” Angus said, gleeful. “The Raven did exactly as he pleased. He was a true star. No one could touch him.”

The words set light to a feeling inside Blaise. How great would it be if he could be like Corvo, a little bit at least?

“Eh, my friend?” Angus glanced at him, eyes gleaming. “You want to be as great an artist as the Raven, too. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Blaise shrugged and gave a slight nod.

“I can always detect a kindred spirit,” said Angus. “So what’s your story, Blaise? How came you to our bonny land?”