Charmed Life - Diana Wynne Jones [2]
Accordingly, Mrs. Sharp turned the box out onto the table. It was a queer collection of things—letters and lace and souvenirs. Cat did not remember having seen half of them before. There was a marriage certificate, saying that Francis John Chant had married Caroline Mary Chant twelve years ago at St. Margaret’s Church, Wolvercote, and a withered nosegay his mother must have carried at the wedding. Underneath that, he found some glittery earrings he had never seen his mother wear.
Mrs. Sharp’s hat rattled as she bent swiftly over these. “Those are diamond earrings!” she said. “Your ma must have had money! Now, if I took those to Mr. Nostrum—But we’d get more for them if I took them around to Mr. Larkins.” Mr. Larkins kept the junk shop on the corner of the street—except that it was not always exactly junk. Among the brass fenders and chipped crockery you could find quite valuable things, and also a discreet notice saying Exotic Supplies—which meant that Mr. Larkins also stocked bats’ wings, dried newts, and other ingredients of magic. There was no question that Mr. Larkins would be very interested in a pair of diamond earrings. Mrs. Sharp’s eyes pouched up, greedy and beady, as she put out her hand to pick up the earrings.
Gwendolen put out her hand for them at the same moment. She did not say anything. Neither did Mrs. Sharp. Both their hands stood still in the air. There was a feeling of fierce invisible struggle. Then Mrs. Sharp took her hand away. “Thank you,” Gwendolen said coldly, and put the earrings away in the pocket of her black dress.
“You see what I mean?” Mrs. Sharp said, making the best of it. “You have real talent, dearie!” She went back to sorting the other things in the box. She turned over an old pipe, ribbons, a spray of white heather, menus, concert tickets, and picked up a bundle of old letters. She ran her thumb down the edge of it. “Love letters,” she said. “His to her.” She put the bundle down without looking at it and picked up another. “Hers to him. No use.” Cat, watching Mrs. Sharp’s broad mauve thumb whirring down a third bundle of letters, thought that being a witch must save a great deal of time. “Business letters,” said Mrs. Sharp. Her thumb paused, and went slowly back up the pile again. “Now what have we here?” she said. She untied the pink tape from around the bundle and carefully took out three letters. She unfolded them.
“Chrestomanci!” she exclaimed. And, as soon as she said it, she clapped one hand over her mouth and mumbled behind it. Her face was red. Cat could see she was surprised, frightened, and greedy, all at the same time. “Now what was he doing writing to your pa?” she said, as soon as she had recovered.
“Let’s see,” said Gwendolen.
Mrs. Sharp spread the three letters out on the kitchen table, and Gwendolen and Cat bent over them. The first thing that struck Cat was the energy of the signature on all three:
The next thing he saw was that two of the letters were written in the same energetic writing as the signature. The first was dated twelve years ago, soon after his parents had been married. It said:
Dear Frank,
Now don’t get on your high horse. I only offered because I thought it might help. I still will help, in any way I can, if you let me know what I can do. I feel you have a claim on me.
Yrs ever,
Chrestomanci
The second letter was shorter:
Dear Chant,
The same to you. Go to blazes.
Chrestomanci
The third letter was dated six years ago, and it was written by someone else. Chrestomanci had only signed it.
Sir,
You were warned six years ago that something like what you relate might come to pass, and you made it quite clear that you wished for no help from this quarter. We are not interested in your troubles. Nor