Catweazle and the Magic Zodiac

top.
    ‘The
first party is arriving at three-fifteen,’ said a tall, distinguished-looking
man. ‘Americans. You’d better get changed.’
    ‘Long
or short tour, my lord?’ asked the other man, who had a rather mournful
expression.
    ‘Depends
how many there are, Mr Groome,’ said the tall man, as they began to walk away
towards the house. ‘Let’s hope it’s a large party, to get the season off to a
good start.’
    Catweazle
was anxious to find out where he was, so he followed them and watched from
behind a pillar as they went inside the house. There were several notices with
arrows pointing in different directions. ‘To the Tea Rooms.’ ‘To Lake.’ ‘To
Picnic Area.’ But although Catweazle could read the ancient scripts of his
magic books, he couldn’t read these letters at all.
    His
curiosity grew stronger and he crept into the main hall but he nearly ran out
again when he saw the suits of armour standing against the walls. Instead however,
he drew his magic knife Adamcos from the sheath round his neck and carefully
tapped a breastplate. It was all right. The armour was empty.
    Suddenly
he heard footsteps and crouched down beside the staircase but Touchwood came
flopping from his special pocket, crawled across the bottom of the stairs and
hid in a dust pan by the newel-post.
    A
jolly-looking woman appeared, carrying a duster and a brush. She picked up the
dust pan and then went busily up the stairs. Catweazle watched her with horror
and then began to creep after her. Touchwood had to be rescued at once.
    As
Catweazle disappeared, Mr Groome hurried into the main hall pulling on a peaked
cap which had ‘Guide’ written across it. Almost immediately a coach drew up
outside and a small party of American tourists came into the main hall. Groome
cleared his throat and addressed them importantly.
    ‘Good
afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I should like to welcome you to
Kings Farthing, home of Lord and Lady Collingford and of the famous Collingford
collection of military relics dating from the Norman Conquest.’
    There
were polite murmurs of appreciation from the tourists. A large gentleman from
Chicago trained a movie camera on Groome who drew himself up to his
    full
height and continued rather self-consciously. ‘The house stands on the
foundations of Farthing Castle, built by the Normans in 1070 and destroyed
during the Civil War, the English Civil War that is,’ he said, eyeing them
coldly. ‘The present house was built by Lord Alfred Collingford in 1852.’
Groome pointed to a portrait of a rather wild-looking man dressed in black.

    ‘Legend
has it,’ went on Groome, who had learnt all this by heart, ‘that he found the
old dungeons of Farthing Castle below this house and that there he dabbled in
Black Magic, er — a favourite hobby of his. However, so far, no secret passages
have been discovered. It was during Lord Alfred’s time that the Collingford
treasure mysteriously disappeared.’
    ‘Gee!
Treasure!’ gurgled a teenager from Texas.
    ‘Er...
mysteriously disappeared,’ repeated Groome, who had lost his place. ‘The
treasure was a hoard of gold and jewels taken from a Spanish galleon in 1585 by
Lord Francis Collingforde.’
    Upstairs,
Catweazle watched as the housekeeper unlocked one of the bedrooms. She put the
dust pan down on a chest, took some sheets from the top drawer, and began to
make up the big fourposter bed. After a moment Touchwood crawled dizzily out of
the dust pan, but as Catweazle darted to grab him, the housekeeper turned and
he ducked out of sight behind a chair. Touchwood crawled to the edge of the
chest and dropped heavily into the half-open drawer. The housekeeper, who
hadn’t noticed him, pushed it shut and turned back to finish making the bed.
Then Catweazle peered over the top of the chair and was astonished to find that
Touchwood had vanished. Before he could recover, the housekeeper had left the
bedroom, once again locking the door. Catweazle was trapped.
    ‘Touchwood!’
he whispered, looking wildly round, ‘Touchwood!!’ But his familiar’s answering
croak was muffled inside the drawer and the only sound Catweazle heard was a
taxi drawing up outside the main entrance of Kings Farthing.
    A thin
rather sad-looking boy, with glasses and long dark hair, jumped out, paid the
taxi man and struggled into the house with a bulging suitcase and a cello.
Cedric, the Collingfords’ only son, was home for the summer