Eglantine by Catherine Jinks Read Free Book Online Page A

in quietly, and was peeling a banana from the fruit bowl. ‘That’s probably what happened.’
    ‘Maybe her father strangled her!’ I added. ‘Maybe he had to sell the house because he went to gaol.’
    ‘Now, stop it,’ said Mum, with a frown. ‘You’re being silly.’
    ‘But, Mum, just think.’ I myself was thinking – thinking hard. ‘In the story, the white-bearded king wants his daughter to marry a man she’s not in love with. Maybe the same thing happened here. Maybe it was like that TV series, “Nicholas Nickleby”, where the father was bankrupt and wanted his daughter to marry a rich man, and she wouldn’t because she was in love with someone else, so in this case he strangled her -’
    ‘That’s enough!’ Mum snapped. ‘You’re being revolting and melodramatic. I don’t want any more talk about stranglings in this house!’
    But of course there was more talk about stranglings that night, because the two PRISM investigators came. Sylvia turned up in a neat pair of track-pants, a white woollen jumper and some very old running shoes. With her she brought a young guy named Richard Boyer, who was thin and pale and very keen. He had bright blue eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses, and a quick, breathless way of talking. He was some sort of computer expert.
    When I told him about Eglantine, and Bethan told him about the choking nightmares, he suggested that Eglantine might have died, not because she was strangled, but because she had asthma.
    ‘I get asthma,’ he said, looking at Bethan. ‘Did it feel as if someone had parked a truck on your chest?’
    ‘No,’ Bethan replied. ‘It was as if someone was stuffing something down my throat.’
    ‘Hmmm,’ said Richard. Then he began to talk about other examples of ghostly writing on walls, including one called the Borley Rectory hoax that I’d read about at the library. He seemed very excited. He couldn’t sit still but kept jumping up, again and again, and roaming around the kitchen before returning to his seat. The sight of Eglantine’s book was almost too much for him; his hands trembled as he opened it.
    ‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘Fascinating. Tennyson’s Idylls of the King . Is this the same text that’s written on the bedroom walls?’
    ‘No,’ I replied. ‘That book is poetry. The stuff upstairs – well, it isn’t poetry.’
    ‘Maybe we should destroy the book,’ Ray suddenly remarked. He had been standing quietly near the fridge. ‘Has anyone thought of that? Maybe the book contains some – I don’t know – some essence or anchor that’s keeping Eglantine in this house. Maybe we should burn the book.’ As everyone turned to stare at him, he gave an embarrassed little smile. ‘Well,’ he finished, ‘it’s just a suggestion.’
    ‘It’s a good one,’ I said.
    But Sylvia would have none of it. ‘ I’ll take the book,’ she declared. ‘I’ll take it out of the house, and we’ll see if that makes any difference. I don’t think it ought to be destroyed just yet. Not when it contains this sample of Eglantine’s handwriting. Incidentally,’ she added, ‘we might have this handwriting dated, if possible. By an expert.’
    ‘But it was written in 1906,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s already dated.’
    ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘The question is – are we sure it’s the correct date?’
    After a lot of thought, I finally realised what she was getting at. She was saying that Mum, or Ray – or someone else – might have forged Eglantine’s name, to match the writing that they also might have put on the walls. (Human intervention, in other words.) But before I could point out, once again, that we didn’t want any writing on the walls, Sylvia was shepherding Richard up to Bethan’s bedroom.
    ‘Oh, no,’ she said, as she walked in. ‘Oh, no, this is no good.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Mum asked.
    ‘There’s so much writing. There are no blank spaces.’
    ‘No,’ Mum said patiently. ‘That’s what I was