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That was the lightbulb.
I was gradually coming to the conclusion that Gideon’s presence would at least be better than rats and ghosts. But he didn’t arrive. Instead the lightbulb flickered in its death throes.
When I was scared in the dark as a child, I always used to sing, and I automatically did that now. First very quietly, then louder and louder. After all, there was no one here to listen in on me.
Singing helped. I didn’t feel so scared, or so cold. After the first few minutes the lightbulb even stopped flickering. It started again when I began on Adele songs, and it didn’t seem to like Katy Perry, either. However, when I tried old Abba songs, it rewarded me with a steady, regular beam of light. A pity I couldn’t remember more of them, particularly the words. But the lightbulb was ready to accept lalala, one chance in a lifetime, lalalala.
I sang for hours, or that’s what it felt like. After “The Winner Takes It All,” Lesley’s ultimate unrequited-love song, I started again with “I Wonder.” I danced around the room at the same time so as not to get too cold. After the third encore of “Mamma Mia,” I felt sure that Gideon wasn’t going to turn up.
Damn. I could have stolen out of the cellar and gone upstairs after all. I tried “Head over Heels,” and when I got to “Wasting My Time,” he was suddenly standing there beside the sofa.
I closed my mouth and looked at him accusingly. “Why are you so late?”
“I imagine it seemed a long time to you.” His glance was still as cold and peculiar as a little while ago. He went over to the door and rattled the handle. “At least you had enough sense not to leave this room. You couldn’t know when I might come after you.”
“Ha, ha,” I said. “Is that meant to be a joke?”
Gideon leaned back against the door. “Gwyneth, you needn’t bother to act all innocent with me.”
I could hardly bear that chilly expression. The green eyes that I usually liked so much had gone the color of pea soup—the nasty sort we had in the school dining room, of course.
“Why are you being so … so horrible to me?” I asked. The lightbulb flickered again. It was probably missing my Abba songs. “You don’t by any chance have a lightbulb with you, I suppose?”
“It was the cigarette smoke that gave you away.” Gideon was playing with the flashlight he held in one hand. “So then I did a little research, and I put two and two together.”
I swallowed. “What’s so terrible about smoking a cigarette?”
“You didn’t. And you can’t tell lies half as well as you think. Where’s the key?”
“What key?”
“The key that Mr. George gave you so that you could visit him and your grandfather in 1956.” He took a step toward me. “If you’re clever, you’ve hidden it somewhere in here, if not, then it’s still on you.” He went right up to the sofa, picked up the cushions, and threw them on the floor one by one. “Well, it’s not here, anyway.”
I stared at him, horrified. “Mr. George didn’t give me any key! Really he didn’t. And as for the cigarette smoke, that’s totally—”
“It wasn’t just cigarette smoke. You’d been somewhere near a cigar as well,” he said calmly. He looked around the room, and his eyes lingered on the chairs stacked in front of the wall.
I was beginning to feel very cold again, and even the lightbulb seemed to be trembling worse than ever in sympathy. “I…,” I began uncertainly.
“Yes?” Now Gideon sounded positively friendly. “You smoked a cigar as well, did you? In addition to the three Marlboros? Is that what you were going to tell me?”
I said nothing.
Gideon bent down to shine the flashlight under the sofa. “Did Mr. George write the password on a piece of paper for you, or did you learn it by heart? And how did you get past the Cerberus Watch on the way back? They never mentioned it in the records.”
“What on earth do you think you’re talking about?” I said. I meant to sound outraged, but I’m afraid it came over more intimidated.
“Violet Purpleplum—what a very remarkable name, don’t you agree? Ever heard it before?” Gideon had straightened up again and was looking at me. No, greengage jelly wasn’t the right comparison for his eyes. They were a positively toxic green.
Slowly, I shook my head.
“That’s funny,” he commented. “And she’s a friend of your family, too. When I happened to mention the name to Charlotte, by chance, she told me kind Mrs. Purpleplum always knitted scratchy scarves for you all.”
Oh, damn Charlotte! Couldn’t she ever keep her mouth shut? “No, that’s wrong,” I said all the same. “She knits the scratchy ones specially for Charlotte. The rest of us get nice soft scarves.”
Gideon leaned against the sofa and crossed his arms. He shone the beam of the flashlight at the ceiling, where the bulb was still flickering nervously. “For the last time, where’s the key, Gwyneth?”
“Mr. George didn’t give me any key. I swear it,” I said, with a desperate attempt at damage limitation. “He doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
