Aunt Maria by Diana Wynne Jones

got a right to it. He was Antony Green’s second in command before they did for Antony Green.”
    â€œ Who did for Antony Green?” I said.
    â€œThe same people who did for Dad. Obviously,” Chris said. He began to ramble along the sand, throwing stones into the sea. The wind was nothing like as strong as it had been that first day, but it was still hard to hear him. I thought he said, “Mrs. Urs,” as he went.
    I ran after him. “Mr. Phelps is awfully mad,” I said.
    â€œI knew you wouldn’t understand,” Chris said. “Being female puts you automatically on the other side.”
    That really annoyed me. “No, it doesn’t. I’m neutral like Miss Phelps,” I said. “And I want to know. Or are you being mysterious about nothing?”
    We went rambling and wrangling along beside the waves until our feet were crusty with wet sand. Chris kept squirting out bits of explanation, the way he had talked about the ghost, in jerks. I think he was scared and ashamed of thinking some of the things he was thinking, too. He rather thought Mr. Phelps was mad. “He’s a fitness freak,” he said. “He does judo as well as that sword stuff. When he comes along the front, he’s coming back from swimming. In all weathers. He says it’s the way he stays above the common herd.” Worse than Dad.
    â€œYes, but,” I said, “what has my story in the garden shed to do with Mr. Phelps and Antony Green and the ghost?”
    â€œIt proves Dad did see Aunt Maria, probably. Right?” said Chris. “Now Dad is a native of Cranbury, remember. He’d know the whole story of Antony Green, and he’d know what the ghost was looking for. Suppose he came and stayed with Aunt Maria. Lavinia would be in the room you and Mum have, so Dad would have the room I’m in, wouldn’t he?”
    â€œSo it is Dad’s ghost!” I cried out.
    â€œNo, it isn’t, you fool!” said Chris. And he went running away on top of his own reflection shining down in the wet sand. I couldn’t make him stop for ages. But at last he stood still and said unfairly, “Have you calmed down? Right. Then suppose Dad saw the ghost and looked for what it was looking for and found it. What would he do then? It’s valuable, remember, and he wouldn’t want Aunt Maria to know he’d found it.”
    We stood facing one another on top of our reflections, with the wind clapping our anoraks. Chris looked deadly serious. It was the way Mr. Phelps looked holding his sword. He’s mad now! I thought. I said, “He’d hide it in that place in the car where I put my story. But he had to take my story out to make room for it and hide that. Chris, what happened then?”
    â€œSomebody found out,” Chris said. He went running off again, calling over his shoulder, “Did our car fall off the cliff? Did it? Whee!”
    I stood there. I thought, I’m mad, too. That blue car. I ran after Chris. “Chris! I met the car again outside the drugstore. Let’s go and buy flea powder.”
    â€œLet’s,” said Chris. “I can pick the back lock. I got good at it.”
    But we didn’t find the car, not outside the drugstore or anywhere else we looked. It’s just dawned on me where we should have looked—in the station car park where we saw it first. We’d better look there tomorrow—though I still think everyone’s mad.

Six
    W e found the car. I don’t know how to write about all this. It’s so strange. I had to go upstairs and write it while Aunt Maria waits for the Mrs. Urs to come calling. Mum has gone out. She said it was only fair, after she let me and Chris go off two mornings running. So I have left Chris being talked to by Aunt Maria. It’s quite a risk. I know he’ll say something again. I’ll go down and pretend to get out the cake when I hear the row start. But I just