The Whispers of Wilderwood Hall Read Online Free PDF Page B

–
Cam
– had begun tugging roughly at the strands of vines, till the stone fountain began to reveal itself. They’d seemed pretty impressed at uncovering a chunk of the house’s history. All
I
saw was a hunk of granite that had (shamefully) tripped me up while I wasn’t looking.
    â€œExactly!” Mum says enthusiastically. “Anyway, talking about things you come across in an old place like this, wait till you see what’s in the kitchen… Come and take a look.”
    At first I think that Mum’s talking about the titchy kitchen I vaguely looked in yesterday upstairs in the servants’ quarters, the one that’s ugly and basic and falling to pieces. But instead she waves us all out of the dining room, along the wide corridor, till we come to a simpler passageway on our left. From the position of it, I guess that it must lead through to the original kitchen in the East Wing.
    â€œSo, this place is what – about a hundred years old?” I hear Mr Fraser ask, as he strides along the cool grey flagstones, past doors painted a chipped and faded gloss green.
    Cam is behind me, which is pretty awkward. Or unnerving. Or maybe a mix of both. He’s probably looking at how tall and gangly I am and wondering how I can be related to such a tiny, pretty person as my mum. Meanwhile, I’m wondering where his dogs are, but I’m not about to ask him, no way.
    â€œIt’s Edwardian, built in 1911, according to the deeds,” Mum chats easily as she leads the way. “The original owner was apparently a Mr Richards, from London. Do you happen to know anything else about Wilderwood?”
    â€œ Not much, but then we only moved to Glenmill from Glasgow a couple of years back,” says Mr Fraser.
    OK, so bang goes my theory about everyone in Glenmill having lived here for ever. Still, it might not apply to Cam Fraser and his family, but I bet it goes for everyone else, like the ancient waitress in the Cairn Café.
    â€œOh, really? So you’re not quite up to speed with all the local history – or gossip, then?” Mum jokes, forgetting for a second who she’s married to, and the fact that
we
might end up being the local gossip, if we’re not already.
    Mr Fraser laughs, charmed by Mum, I can tell.
    â€œAll I
did
hear was that it sat empty for decades,” he tells her, “till some hippy bloke bought it in the 1970s, I think it was, with a view to doing it up. He only lived in a few of the smaller rooms upstairs in this wing, apparently. Never had the money to do up the main house, I don’t think.”
    â€œWell, it
is
quite a project, but we’re looking forward to it,” says Mum. “Anyway, here we are. What do you reckon to this, Ellis?”
    I go to follow Mum and Mr Fraser into the large, echoing room, which is completely empty, apart from a mammoth black cooking range.
    But as I put my hand on the door frame, something happens. A sudden storm of noise hits me. Chatter. Clattering. A rush of water. A metallic-sounding bell ring-a-dinging incessantly. Then someone is holding my elbow – and I don’t want them to.
    â€œEllis? Ellis, honey?”
    Mum’s voice cuts through the cacophony and it melts away as fast as it came, leaving me feeling clammy and crazy around the edges. I pull my elbow away from what I realize is Cam’s hand. He’s staring at me with those sharp eyes of his, like he’s taking in every detail so he can tell his friends in the village all about me, all about us, later.
    I’m suddenly angry as well as embarrassed and confused. What’s Cam even doing here, anyway?
Did
he tag along with his dad ’cause he’s sussed who Mum’s married to? The estate agent was meant to be keeping it a secret. Still, stuff gets out – look at the photos in
Heat
. Except… Except maybe I left the magazine open on the tartan-covered table yesterday and blew the secret