‘Miss Dibdin’s bed-sitter!’ said John. ‘That’s one of the road-mender’s cones.’
Another large room, with an unmade four-post bed, they decided belonged to Mrs Witherspoon. They searched in bedrooms, bathrooms, airing cupboards and clothes closets.
‘Not a sign of Carbonel!’ said Rosemary sadly, when they had closed the door.
‘I can’t think of anywhere else to look,’ said John.
‘Wait a minute!’ said Rosemary. ‘What’s that?’ She pointed to a narrow door in a dark corner of the gallery that they had not noticed.
‘Another airing cupboard by the size of it,’ said John. He lifted the latch and peered inside. ‘I bet it’s ...’ He broke off. ‘Rosie! It’s a little spiral staircase! How super! It must lead to the top of the tower. Of course, that’s where Carbonel must be hidden! Come on!’
Stooping low they crept through the door. It closed behind them with a ‘snick’ that made them jump uncomfortably, and made the stairs so dark that they had to feel their way. Up they went, till a glimmer of light from a small lancet window showed a landing at the top. This was cluttered with junk. There were bulging boxes and bags, and piles of cracked china. An old parrot’s cage was balanced on a broken chair. Through all this a narrow path led to a small door, heavily studded with nails.
‘I bet this is it!’ said John. He tried the wrought-iron handle, but of course it was locked.
‘Carbonel!’ called Rosemary cautiously through the keyhole. ‘Carbonel! Are you there?’
There was a moment’s tense silence, and then a faint but familiar voice answered: ‘Who calls my name? I hoped I should be spared the humiliation of being recognized.’
‘But it’s us! John and Rosemary! So you don’t have to be humiliated. I’m so glad we’ve found you at last!’
‘John and Rosemary? Is it really you?’
‘Can you come nearer the key-hole?’ said John. ‘We can scarcely hear you.’
‘Alas, no,’ sighed Carbonel. ‘Not content with locking me in, the Witch Woman has set a guard over me, here inside. I am ringed round with strange creatures that never take their eyes from me. I have never seen anything like them before.’
As he spoke John and Rosemary heard a twittering sound they seemed to recognize, a twittering that rose and fell.
‘What are they like?’ asked John through the key-hole.
‘Square,’ said Carbonel.
‘With a leg at each corner?’ said Rosemary.
‘And paws so hard and sharp they might be made of iron,’ added Carbonel.
‘And four eyes. Two at the back and two at the front?’
‘You describe them exactly,’ said Carbonel. ‘Have you seen such creatures before?’
‘It’s the Scrabbles!’ said John and Rosemary with one voice. And as though the creatures heard and recognized Rosemary, the twittering rose excitedly.
‘They squat round me in a circle day and night,’ went on Carbonel when the noise had died down again.
‘Listen,’ said John. ‘The door is locked and we haven’t got the key so we can’t let you out yet. You are safe until moonrise tonight. Grisana has hatched a plot with Mrs Witherspoon.’
‘Those two wicked creatures together? That is bad.’
‘But somehow we will get news through to Calidor.’
‘My son Calidor?’ said Carbonel with surprise.
‘As soon as he heard you had disappeared he went back to Fallowhithe to restore order ...’
‘Dumpsie came to tell him,’ interrupted Rosemary. ‘She came all that long way with a hurt paw ...’
‘Calidor has gone home? Then it is worth all this!’ said Carbonel.
‘What’s the matter?’ said John. Rosemary was tugging at his sleeve.
‘Voices in the hall. And I think they’re angry.’
‘We can’t stay any longer,’ said John through the keyhole. ‘But we are going to get help. So cheer up.’
‘And don’t give in!’ said Rosemary.
‘Give in!’ exclaimed Carbonel. ‘Never will I become slave to a common Witch Woman!’ At this the twittering of the Scrabbles grew so loud that his voice was drowned.
John and Rosemary turned and felt their way down the spiral staircase.
16. Middle Magic
WHEN JOHN and Rosemary reached the gallery they realized that, for the moment, escape was impossible. Mrs Witherspoon was standing in the hall at the foot of the stairs. There was no doubt that the voices they had heard were angry. In the open doorway stood Miss Dibdin: her sensible shoes planted squarely on the mat, a black cone on her head, and the broom trailing from one hand. There was nothing to do but wait and see what happened, and hope they would not be seen. They crouched down on the floor and peered through the carved rail that ran round the gallery.
Mrs Witherspoon, with Gullion on her shoulder, held a large china bowl in one hand, and in the other a bunch of leafy sprays, which they supposed she had just picked from the garden.
‘I thought I had made it quite clear, Dorothy, that I did not want you back at Tucket Towers!’ she said harshly.
‘I only came to fetch the toothbrush I left behind. I can hardly imagine that you want to keep it?’ replied Miss Dibdin coldly.
‘I suppose you came hopping along on your precious broomstick, like some monstrous great flea!’ said Mrs Witherspoon, laughing scornfully.
‘Well, that’s more than you can do!’ said Miss Dibdin. ‘I don’t believe you have even tried to make a Broom Magic.’
‘You have no idea what I can do,’ said Mrs Witherspoon, ‘or you’d be green with envy! So like you to imagine that a broomstick is the only way of flying. You’ve no imagination. And as for plain ignorance ...! Why, I don’t believe you even know the Three Orders of Magic!’
‘Well, if you’re so clever you can tell me. What are they?’ said Miss Dibdin sulkily.
‘First there is Lower Magic,’ replied Mrs Witherspoon in an arrogant voice. ‘That means small, easy, conjuring tricks, such as the making of Flying Philtres, Disappearing Drops and so on. Then there is Middle Magic, more difficult by far, for it deals with Time and Space and Tides ...’ Here her voice faded. She stared at Miss Dibdin with a faraway gaze.
‘Well?’ said Miss Dibdin impatiently. ‘And the third ...?’
Mrs Witherspoon shook herself, and gave a great sigh. ‘The Supreme Magic? That is only for the wisest of the Sinister Sisterhood. Perhaps even I shall never know the beauty and the power of it. But with Gullion’s help I do my best. So full of ideas is my little toadlet! You remember the field I sold the other day? Well, the last thing I want is a sprawl of houses spoiling the view from my windows.’
‘Then why did you sell it for building?’ asked Miss Dibdin.
‘Because I wanted more money. But Gullion has told me exactly what to do. He whispered a deliciously wicked scheme to me on my pillow last night.’ Mrs Witherspoon laughed shrilly. ‘It is just a matter of dropping the right herbs in the cement mixer, dancing round it at midnight, chanting the right words... .’
‘And what good will that do?’ said Miss Dibdin scornfully.
‘You mean what evil, dear?’ said Mrs Witherspoon. ‘Just this. What the builders build by day, will fall with a crash by night! Till at last they will become so discouraged they will give it up and go away.’
‘All this fine talk about that nasty toad! I don’t believe you know any more about magic than I do,’ said Miss Dibdin.
‘Do I not?’ said Mrs Witherspoon sweetly. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Then you shall see for yourself! Watch, and here and now I will make a Middle Magic! I told you how sad I was that Tucket Towers had lost its splendour, as I knew it first as a young bride, before its treasures were sold and its buildings began to crumble?’
Miss Dibdin rolled her eyes, as much as to say she had heard it only too often, but Mrs Witherspoon took no notice. She raised her thin arms, and twirled round on her long thin feet, so that her black skirt flowed round her. ‘Watch, my little Dibdin,’ she cried. ‘Watch, and you shall see a Middle Magic!’