The Coming of the Spirits

By Rob Keeley

The Bookbag Top 10 Self-Published Book 2018
The final book in the award-winning Spirits series.  Sequel to High Spirits – Georgina Hawtrey-Woore Award winner 2018.  Rob Keeley is back with the fifth and final instalment in his award-winning Spirits series. The series allows young people to learn more about other times, as well as the time in which they live.
“Nazis alone were dangerous enough, but Nazis with the powers of ghosts... of evil spirits...” 
Britain. The present day. The world we know. Ruled by the Nazis.  Victorian England. Edward Fitzberranger is soon to become ill and die. But could there be another way?   The Middle Ages. Sir Francis Fitzberranger is about to marry... but finds himself shifted in time. 
The barrier into the spirit world is finally breaking down and no one in the mortal world is safe. History must be set back on course and prophecies fulfilled. The Grand Defender is needed. 
As Ellie works with an underground resistance movement and with the spirit world too, she is about to discover her true destiny... 
“Here we have a novel with a rapid pace, a dollop of humour and a time slip... Good fun, many twists and turns, and with excellent period and political detail.” Georgina Hawtrey-Woore Award judges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Mar 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781800469372

Rob Keeley

Rob Keeley is an award-winning author of children’s novels, short stories and picture books, including the Spirits series. Other credits include the award-listed stage play Mr. Everyone, and Chain Gang and Newsjack for BBC Radio. He holds author workshops in schools and libraries, and teaches Creative Writing to children and adults.

Book preview

Twenty

Chapter One

Inchwood Manor, 1897

Edward, old man!

Edward Fitzberranger stopped at the top of the vast staircase. Then he came running down the stairs, two at a time, to join the elder boy who was yelling to him from the hall below.

The elder boy was tall, with a cheeky freckled face and flaming red hair that stuck up very straight. Edward grasped his hand and shook it furiously.

Carrot-Head! What on earth are you doing here?

My father’s come to see yours, the boy called Carrot-Head said. On business. You might call me William, though, or Will. I’ve grown up a bit, now. Left the dear old school – though not as dramatically as you did!

Edward laughed.

So when I found out this was your place, I was determined to come and see my old chum, Snooty Fitzberranger! The boy who got expelled in two weeks.

I might have stayed, if all the fellows had been as sound as you, said Edward. Is the corner of the library window still broken, where you climbed in from that tree?

Will grinned. He nodded.

I knew we were two of a kind, when you put that stink-bomb in Matron’s cupboard. Got ragged terribly, for talking to a junior kid. But you could have been a legend, if only they hadn’t kicked you out. I organised a sort of protest, day after you left. No one ate their pilchards at tea, and every master in the school found his desk stuffed with seed-cake.

Edward looked at Will as the Merry Men might have looked at Robin Hood.

I say.

Will put his arm around Edward’s shoulders.

Come along, then, junior tic. You can show me everything this fine estate’s got to offer. I hear you’ve a lake… and your own private woods. Ever built a campfire? Cadge a few scraps from the kitchen, I’ll show you how to have a proper cook-out. Chap Father knew in America showed me how.

Right-ho, Edward said. And I’ll show you the birds’ nests I found. This way, Carrot-Head. I mean, Will.

They stepped out into the courtyard and headed off into the trees.

Will took a breath of fresh spring air.

Marvellous, isn’t it? One of those days that makes you glad to be alive. Had a narrow squeak, actually. Scarlet fever. Just over it.

Edward looked worried for a second.

That’s supposed to be quite bad, isn’t it? Sure you’re fully fit again?

Oh, fighting fit, Will said. They wanted me to stay at home another week, but I wasn’t having that. Too much to do! He looked at Edward. Don’t worry, the rash went ages ago. You’re quite safe.

Edward relaxed. He followed Will into the trees.

Going to school with the big boys, in a few months, Will said. Then, after Cambridge, Father’s got me down for the Diplomatic Service. He always did have a sense of humour.

With a whoop, he reached upwards and grabbed the branch of a tree, swinging backwards and forwards. Edward blinked.

I say, careful. That branch looks rotten…

There was a creaking and then a snap. Will fell to the ground. Edward ran to him. But Will was laughing. He had somehow managed to land in a seated position. Hands on his knees, he rocked back and forth.

Told you. Nothing stops Will Anselm.

He picked up the remains of the branch from around him.

This’ll do to start the fire. I’ll go and fetch some more wood.

Edward stood watching Will as he made off through the trees.

Hello, Edward.

Edward spun round.

A tall figure was standing there, dressed in tattered colourful robes. It wore a mask that was painted half with the face of the sun, half with the moon.

Edward looked at the figure uneasily.

Who are you? He drew himself up hastily, looking at his most haughty. You’re trespassing, you know, this is private property.

I’ve come to see you, a deep voice said. Edward Fitzberranger. Because you’re about to die.

Edward took a step back.

What do you mean?

That boy. The figure pointed through the trees. Will Anselm. He’s just infected you with scarlet fever. And in a few weeks’ time, you’ll be dead. You won’t live to go back to school, or grow up, or inherit Inchwood. Your ghost will be trapped here forever, wandering the house and the nursery, neither a boy, nor quite a man.

Edward paled.

And that’s rather how you’ll look.

Edward stared. Although he couldn’t see a face, he had a feeling that the figure was smiling.

"Of course, it doesn’t have to be that way. History can be changed. I can help you. All you have to do is follow me."

Edward was gawping. He quickly set his jaw, trying to look like his brave ancestors.

How?

The figure reached into its robes and produced a large, brass key, handing it to Edward.

Take this. And await my instructions. There’s over seventy years of life owing to you, Edward Fitzberranger. Just make sure you get them.

But…

With a whirl of tattered gown, the figure turned away.

Edward found himself standing alone, holding the key.

He quickly stuck it into his pocket as Will returned, arms full of firewood.

There we are. I’ll go and get the fire going, you nip back to the house. See if your cook’s got some sausages, or something…. I say, Snooty? What’s wrong?

Edward stared at his old friend in sudden terror.

Chapter Two

Present-day Stipley Hall

On the terrace of Stipley, a small boy had fallen while running. He had grazed his knee and elbow, and sat on the paving slabs in a torrent of tears. His mother was trying to cheer him up with an antiseptic spray and an ice-lolly.

Never mind, Cecil, just let Mummy put a little bit of this on. Then, if you’re good, there’s a Raspberry Roller for you.

All the visitors passing by were staring, and Cecil needed more than a Raspberry Roller to make him feel better. He went on howling.

A short distance away, the ancient wooden door of the house opened, and a dark young girl in maid’s uniform looked out. She saw Cecil crying. Then she stepped back indoors.

The door opened again, and a tall black man emerged onto the terrace. He was in period costume of frock-coat and breeches and had a kind, if stern face.

Quietly, he slipped among the crowd. Cecil was making more and more of a scene.

The man in the frock-coat raised a hand to his mouth. Palm upwards, he blew a shower of golden particles along his fingers and across the paving slabs to Cecil. They surrounded him, and Cecil suddenly stopped crying.

The grazes had gone.

Cecil smiled.

Wow. His mother looked at the spray. It’s good stuff, this, isn’t it? Coming to have your lolly now, sweetheart?

None of the adults had seen. But Cecil had. As his mother led him away, he looked towards the man in the frock-coat and smiled.

Henry Holborn gave him a wink.

He stepped back towards the house. It didn’t do for a spirit to remain among mortals for long.

He entered the hall.

Mary? Sophia?

Good morning, Mr Holborn.

Henry turned to see the masked and robed figure standing there.

His face hardened.

Who are you?

I am the Warlock.

Henry’s expression didn’t change. And what Warlock may that be?

The one who holds your destiny in his hands.

Henry shook his head.

Nonsense words. They mean anything you want them to mean. That’s how all you magicians work. Where’s your face? I shan’t talk to anyone who won’t look me in the eye.

He reached out a hand towards the mask, but found an invisible wall barring his way.

Then at least tell me who you are, sir.

Don’t you know me? the figure asked. We’ve met before. I was watching when your friends defeated James. When you found your daughter. Though you didn’t see me, at the time.

So what do you want?

The figure reached out a gloved hand. It held another brass key.

You’ll soon be needed, Henry Holborn. The boundary of the spirit world is broken. The mortal world is in danger. Only the holders of these keys can help.

Henry didn’t move. But he was listening now.

Another history is coming, one which will tear this country apart, and destroy its freedom. Bad people will come to power. People who believe themselves to be greater than other races. I’m sure you know what that can mean.

Henry still looked distrustful. But his long fingers reached out and closed on the key.

What do you want me to do?

Chapter Three

The Castle of the Berrangers, 1206

I am to be married, Father. And that is all!

The sound of heavy boots thundered across flagstones, as Sir Francis Fitzberranger strode into the Great Chamber. Flags carrying the Berranger family crest hung above his head. As he entered, squires, serving-men and dogs alike moved to get out of his way.

A stable-lad smirked, and was instantly cuffed by an older hand. No one showed disrespect to a Berranger’s son. Though,