Stella thought about Agapanthus and Ottilie. Where were they? What was happening to them?
Midnight was curled up beside her, purring. She put her arms around him and buried her face in his shaggy fur. It was a long time before she fell asleep.
Stella dreamed again. She was very cold. She was singing. The notes swam through the misty darkness, like little silver fish. She was tired and very frightened, but she knew she must not stop singing, because if she did, something dreadful would happen. Beside her, a pale young man was playing a broken harp. The strings made hardly any sound, and his voice was no more than a whisper.
It was dark, but there was a glimmering, greenish light that seemed to shift and swirl. The air was as cold as ice and smelled of ancient things, long dead.
She sang on and on, and in the darkness around her, shadowy creatures flapped and slithered.
‘Stella!’ Someone was shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes. It was daylight.
Joe grinned at her. ‘Wake up, it’s morning. You were singing in your sleep, so you were. You must’ve been dreaming.’ He unwrapped a newspaper parcel. ‘Buns,’ he said, ‘hot from the baker.’ He passed them around.
Stella sat up. She was stiff and cold. The dream lingered in her mind. She could feel the creeping mist and almost hear the echo of distant music. She rubbed her eyes and blinked.
‘This is Annie and Maisie,’ Joe said, pointing. The two little girls were sitting side by side on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. They stared at Stella with serious expressions. They were thin and pale, with wispy, straw-coloured hair. Joe poured milk from a tin jug into a mug and handed it to them. With his mouth full, he said, ‘I took the pearl down to Mrs Mackle at the shop on the corner, first thing, and she give me six bob for it. I told you we’d be rich.’ He took a handful of little coins from his pocket and passed them to Liza. She counted them, feeling each coin carefully, and dropped them into a little bag she wore around her neck.
Joe said, ‘So there’s a dozen buns and a pint of milk, and I got a farthing sprat for your cat. And I got all our boots out of pawn, so I did. You can wear your boots to school today, Will, just like a gentleman.’ He ruffled Will’s hair, grinning. ‘This clever lad is going to learn everythin’ there is to know. And tonight we’ll have a fish supper. We’ll eat like lords and ladies, so we will.’
Stella was very hungry. The bun was delicious. It had a sugar glaze on top and was studded with fat currants.
Joe unwrapped a little fish from a piece of newspaper and gave it to Midnight, who wolfed it down in two bites, lapped up some milk from a saucer, and then washed his whiskers.
The little girls, Annie and Maisie, watched the cat with wide eyes as they ate their buns and shared the mug of milk between them. Annie put a timid finger out, touched his tail and smiled.
Stella remembered the musical box, and she took it from her pocket to show them. She wound it up and opened the lid, and the tinkling, melancholy tune filled the room. It sounded like raindrops falling on wet leaves. It reminded Stella of Luna singing. For a moment, she saw the darkness and the glimmering green light from her dream.
The little girls stopped eating and listened in enchanted silence with their mouths open.
When the music slowed down and stopped at last, Liza sighed and said, ‘That was right pretty.’
Joe ran his finger over the smooth wood of the musical box, tracing the pattern of twining flowers. ‘Who made it?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Stella. ‘It was my mother’s.’ She had never thought about it, but of course the box must have been made especially for her mother, because her name was part of the pattern, curving across the lid in silver letters. Patience. Someone must have made the shapes of the letters, and the leaves and flowers, and the tiny silver star and moon.
Liza sat up straight and said, ‘Anyway, you’ll be late for school, Will.’ She passed him a bun wrapped in newspaper and a coin. ‘Here’s your dinner and a ha’penny for milk. Comb your hair and wash your face. With soap, mind.’
‘Don’t forget your boots,’ said Joe.
Stella finished her bun. ‘I was thinking about what to do.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should go and tell the police what happened, don’t you think? They’ll make me go back to school, which will be dreadful, but perhaps they can find Agapanthus and Ottilie.’
‘We don’t never talk to the flippin’ peelers,’ said Joe. ‘They’d clap us all in the workhouse, sure as cheese.’
Liza nodded. ‘Likely they would. And Annie and Maisie wouldn’t stand a chance. It’s cruel in there for the little ’uns. We went in when our ma died, but as soon as I was workin’, I got us all out again. The police would throw us back in, right quick. We don’t tell the peelers nothin’. Not ever.’
Stella asked, ‘What can I do, then?’ She thought about the black coach driving away with her friends inside. Disappearing into the darkness. ‘How can I find them?’
‘I was thinkin’ about it last night,’ said Liza. She stroked Midnight. ‘About that door underground and everythin’. It’s right strange, ain’t it? So, I reckon you should go and see Mr Cornelius. Tell him the story, and get him to tell your tea leaves. It’s only a penny, and we can spare it.’
‘That’s an idea,’ said Joe. To Stella, he said, ‘Mr Cornelius knows everythin’. He lives in Coldwater Court, right over the way. He learned Will his letters and made us send him to school.’
Will was sitting on the floor, lacing up his boots. ‘He gives me the frights,’ he said.
‘But he learned you all your letters, and he only charged a ha’penny a lesson,’ said Liza. ‘And when we din’t have the ha’penny, he came and got you, and learned you anyway, din’t he? And you learned them letters quick smart.’
Will pulled a face. ‘They say he listens to what people are thinkin’.’
‘You’re too old to believe stories like that,’ said Joe.
Liza said, ‘He teaches piano and tells fortunes by looking at tea leaves. And he hears everything, all the talk about everyone. He don’t miss nothin’. He’s right clever. He knows about things. Everyone goes to him for advice.’
‘It’s true,’ Joe said. ‘He knows everythin’.’
Liza said, ‘Go on, Joe, you take Stella up to see him. Here’s a penny.’ She passed Joe a coin. ‘Wash your face. And comb your hair. You can leave your cat with me, Stella. You couldn’t take him to see Mr Cornelius anyway, what with that bird of his. I’ll look after him.’ She stroked Midnight’s shaggy fur, and he purred and bumped his head against her ear. ‘We’re gettin’ along fine, we are. And mind your manners, Joe. Say good morning and thank you. You know what he’s like.’
Joe nodded and stood up. ‘I’ll take you over, Stella. But I ain’t staying. I’ll wait outside. He’s right scary, so he is.’
Stella swallowed nervously. Could Mr Cornelius be more frightening than Miss Garnet? Or the Gabbro brothers? It seemed unlikely. She took a breath and pushed the musical box back into the pocket of her dress. She pulled on her coat, shoved her feet into her damp boots and laced them up.
Seventeen
Joe took Stella down the stairs and out to a muddy yard, where there was a pump and a lavatory. They ducked under lines of washing. The lavatory was filthy. Stella used it as quickly as she could, holding her breath. Joe worked the pump handle for her to wash her hands and face with the piece of hard yellow soap, and then she did the same for him. Joe looked critically at Stella with his head on the side and made her wash her face again. ‘He’s right particular, Mr Cornelius,’ he said. He took off his cap, pulled a broken comb from his pocket and ran it through his hair, patting it down into place.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, putting his cap back on. He led the way through a narrow passageway, under a crooked wooden staircase and into another court. All around, tall tenement buildings crowded together, leaning one against another. A drain trickled through the middle of the court. Hens pecked at the straggling weeds. Two wom
en were pegging clothes on a line. A group of young girls was sitting on the steps, busy sorting tiny fish.
Joe said to Stella, ‘Sprat sellers. They get ’em at the market, first thing, and hawk ’em in the street in the afternoon, at the back doors of the flash houses, for their tea. Oranges too, in season. Watercress. Walnuts. It’s a good trade, but tough in the winter.’
They crossed a narrow street, where a pack of barefoot children were poking sticks into a grating. Joe waved at them, and the children waved back. He led Stella along a winding passageway and out into another crowded court. Several small boys and a dog were squabbling over a ball. Joe skirted around the game and pointed to the wall, where there was a neat, framed notice.
Alexander Cornelius
Pianoforte Instruction
Letters Written
Fortunes and Advice
4th Floor
‘This way,’ said Joe. They went into the building and climbed the dark, winding stairs, which smelled of damp and cabbage and washing. They passed a cluster of little girls sitting on a landing, tossing knucklebones. From somewhere above, Stella could hear a piano playing. They reached the fourth floor, and Joe hesitated for a moment, then took a breath and knocked on a door. The piano stopped.
‘Come in,’ said a voice.
Joe pushed the door open. ‘Good mornin’, Mr Cornelius,’ he said, and pulled off his cap.
It was a tiny, spotless room, with windows on three sides, looking out at rooftops and chimneys and clouds. The shutters were open, and after the darkness of the stairs, the bright daylight made them blink. The floorboards had been scrubbed until they gleamed. There were birds everywhere. Sparrows were twittering and hopping along the mantelpiece. A blackbird was chirruping on the brass candlestick of the piano. A robin was perched on the little clock. As Joe and Stella edged inside the room, there was a whirr of wings, and all the little birds flew away out of the windows and were gone.
Mr Cornelius was sitting at the piano. He was thin and elderly, and wore an old-fashioned dark suit, threadbare and neatly mended. On his head perched a jackdaw, a handsome bird with glossy black feathers and a sharp beak.
‘Ah. Joseph. Good morning to you,’ Mr Cornelius said. He stood up. The jackdaw flapped its wings to keep its balance on his head. ‘Do come in.’
‘Thank you.’ Joe gave a little nod to the jackdaw. ‘Good mornin’, Nicholas.’
The jackdaw bobbed his head and cackled.
‘I understand you had some luck in your endeavours last night,’ said Mr Cornelius. ‘How gratifying.’
Joe looked startled. He stammered, ‘Y-yes, that’s right, that is. Thank you. We found a little pearl. Stella found it. This is Stella.’
Mr Cornelius looked intently at Stella, his grey eyes alert. Something tugged at Stella’s memory. Mr Cornelius looked familiar, but she was sure she had never seen him before. He reminded her of someone.
‘How agreeable of you to pay me a visit,’ said Mr Cornelius. ‘Do sit down.’ They sat at the little table. Mr Cornelius sat opposite them. He turned to Joe. ‘How is Eliza, pray? And the little girls?’
‘They’re all prime,’ said Joe. ‘Thank you.’
‘And how is William managing at school? I trust he is applying himself to his studies.’
‘He is, that. He’s reading, and learning all sorts.’ Joe hesitated nervously, and then added, ‘Thank you.’
‘That is most pleasing,’ said Mr Cornelius. ‘So, how may I help you this morning?’
Joe fumbled in his pocket and brought out the penny. He laid the coin carefully on the table. ‘Stella wants advice, and her fortune told too.’ He stood up quickly. ‘I’ll wait outside.’ He bobbed his head to Mr Cornelius. ‘Good mornin’, and thank you.’ He darted out, closing the door behind him.
Mr Cornelius smiled to himself and turned to Stella. There was something uncanny about his gaze. Stella could see why he made Joe nervous. ‘Welcome, my dear,’ he said. ‘I will listen to your story, and I will tell your fortune. I will take the penny only when you believe you have received a penny’s worth of advice. Those are my terms. Are we agreed?’
Stella nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She swallowed uncertainly. ‘I hope you can help. I don’t know what to do.’
‘You will take tea.’ It was not a question. Mr Cornelius stood up. His sudden movement made Nicholas cackle and flap his wings. He flew over to the mantelpiece and perched there. Mr Cornelius filled the kettle from a brass can and put it on the tiny fire that flickered in the grate. He laid out two china cups and saucers, and spooned tea from a tin into a teapot that was decorated with a pattern of temples and gardens and little arched bridges. He crumbled a crust of bread and scattered the crumbs on the windowsill. Then he sat down again and said, ‘Please, begin.’
Stella hesitated. ‘It’s a bit complicated.’ She paused to think, putting the story in order in her head. She watched the sparrows flutter down to the windowsill and peck at the crumbs. She took a breath and began to tell Mr Cornelius everything that had happened since she had arrived at school. How Ottilie had been taken away. How they had found her note, and how she and Agapanthus had tried to rescue her, but had been trapped in Miss Garnet’s album, and then Ottilie had been captured a second time and the Gabbro brothers had taken Agapanthus as well.
Mr Cornelius listened carefully without interrupting, his grey eyes never leaving her face.
Stella said, ‘They were taken away in a black coach. A gentleman’s coach. And I don’t know where they are at all.’
‘Good gracious. How very inconvenient for them,’ said Mr Cornelius. ‘And do you know what these men want with your friend?’
Stella hesitated again. Should she tell him Ottilie’s secret? She met his steady gaze. She thought she could trust him. And she certainly needed his help. She took a breath and said in a low voice, ‘She told us that she is a lockwitch. That’s what she said. She can open locks just by touching them. And it’s true. We saw it. She just put her hand on the lock and it opened.’
‘A lockwitch,’ Mr Cornelius repeated, unsurprised. ‘That is a dangerous gift. Particularly prone to misuse. And her name? Ottilie —?’
‘Ottilie Smith,’ answered Stella. ‘She said her mother had a locksmith shop, here in Wakestone. Her mother was a lockwitch too, and the men took her away, and she didn’t come back. And then they came and snatched Ottilie.’
Mr Cornelius tapped the table with his finger. ‘Smith. Of course. I recall the story. Perhaps a month ago, a little more. There was some talk at the time. She had the locksmith shop just by the market, not far from here. She went out, late one night, and she never returned. The police found no trace of her.’
‘Ottilie was so sad. She was crying all the time at school.’
‘No wonder. Poor child.’
‘She said the gentleman wanted her to open an underground door,’ said Stella.
‘An underground door,’ repeated Mr Cornelius. The kettle boiled, and he took it from the fire and filled the teapot. He seemed lost in thought, and he did not speak as he poured tea into the cups and passed one to Stella. The cups were made from china that was so thin it was almost transparent and were decorated with a pattern of ferns.
Stella picked up her cup and gingerly took a sip. The tea tasted of grass and dust. Mr Cornelius drank his tea slowly. Stella sat quietly and looked around the room. The sparrows chirped and fluttered on the windowsill. There were no pictures on the walls, but on the piano was a framed photograph of a young man. He was leaning against a plaster pillar. His expression was serious, but his mouth curved at the corners, as if he was trying not to laugh. Stella gazed at him. She had the same odd feeling as when she had first seen Mr Cornelius. The young man looked familiar. She felt that she had seen him somewhere before.
At last, Mr Cornelius spoke. ‘Perhaps you know, many years ago, the river that flowed through Wakestone was covered over, and the grand shops and warehouses, the High Street and Museum Square, were built on top of it.
The river still flows, but in tunnels underground.’
‘I saw that,’ said Stella. ‘The Wake. Joe showed me.’
Mr Cornelius said, ‘When I was a young boy, Wakestone was not much larger than a village and the Wake was still a living river. There were willow trees and rushes along the banks. I saw a kingfisher there once. Just a flash as it flew past. A brighter blue than the sky. I will never forget it.’ He smiled. ‘The village green was where Museum Square is now, just below the hill. At midsummer, the girls danced around a maypole on the green, beside the river.’ He sipped his tea. ‘It was a long time ago.’
Stella tried to imagine Mr Cornelius as a young boy. It was impossible.
‘There were cottages around the green,’ he went on. ‘A forge and an inn. All gone now. Buried underground.’
‘So, do you think that’s where the underground door is?’ asked Stella. ‘Somewhere in the village that was buried?’
Mr Cornelius said, ‘It is possible. I will look at your tea leaves. They will enlighten us, no doubt.’
Stella swallowed the last mouthful of tea, and Mr Cornelius took the cup, turned it around three times and placed it upside down on the saucer. He waited for the tea to drain away, and then looked inside the cup. His face became quite still. He seemed to be gazing at something far away, something Stella could not see.
‘What is it?’ asked Stella.
Mr Cornelius looked at her, and then back down at the cup. He turned the cup around.
‘Please, Mr Cornelius. What is it?’ repeated Stella nervously.
‘Peril,’ Mr Cornelius said. He nodded. ‘I regret to say it is rather evident.’
He passed the cup to Stella, pointing to the bottom where the tea leaves clung together. Stella caught her breath. The tea leaves had formed into the shape of a monster. It had wings and long, spindly arms with thin fingers.
It was the frightening, clutching creature from her dreams.
Wakestone Hall Page 11
