A ghostly figure floated down from the top of the castle. It was Sir Grumble-Lot. He didn’t float; he loomed with the air of a man who had been woken up five minutes before his alarm was set to go off, for three hundred years. ‘Cease! Desist! Un-play those bagpipes!’ He wailed, his voice sounding like a fork scraping a dinner plate. He pointed a translucent, trembling finger at Oscar’s tartan waistcoat. ‘I was right in the middle of a wonderful dream about a bonnie lady ghost. And then YOU arrive, sounding like a bag of geese being put through a hay-baler!’ ‘It’s an emergency, Sir!’ Oscar shouted back, accidentally hitting a low G that made the ghost’s hat fly off. ‘The castle is crumbling!’