Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute

by Catherine Griffin

  Sure enough, he was with his cabbage. Both he and John the gardener were working on the broken fence.

  ‘Rickett wants your help to move his Machine. He’s broken his collarbone.’

  Enfield wasn’t keen. ‘What on earth should I help him for? He’s been nothing but rude to me.’

  ‘I know. Don’t, if you don’t want to. But his demonstration went badly and he’s in a lot of pain. I’m afraid he’ll do himself an injury. Not to mention poor Sam.’

  Enfield set down his hammer. ‘C’mon, John. You heard the lady.’ He looked at me ruefully in passing. ‘He must really be desperate if he wants the help of a one-armed man.’

  With Rickett confined to bed on doctor’s orders, the day after the demonstration was uneventful until late in the afternoon, that point in the day when there was still work to be done, but I didn’t much feel like doing it.

  The front door slammed and a male voice shouted. I went into the hall to see Enfield with his arm round John the gardener.

  ‘Dr Langstone,’ Enfield yelled.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Those damn plants,’ John said.

  Blood trickled down his right arm and dripped onto the floor, leaving startling crimson spots on the black and white tiles. He clung to Enfield for support, trembling. It was hard to say which of them looked most shocked.

  ‘I’ll find Langstone,’ I said. ‘Take him through to the kitchen.’

  I ran up the stairs. The lab was quiet, the door locked. I knocked, but there was no sound from within. Nor was there any answer from his bedroom.

  ‘Dr Langstone,’ I called. My voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall, but no reply came.

  Frustrated, I ran back down the stairs and went to the kitchen to see what I could do there. Enfield and John sat at the table. Enfield pressed a tea towel to the wound. Molly hung round John’s neck, sobbing. Mrs Jones wasn’t there.

  ‘I can’t find him. Molly, is there a first-aid kit?’

  She stared at me blankly for a moment. ‘In Mrs Jones' room.’

  ‘Perhaps you should get it then?’ I said gently.

  She peeled herself off John. I lifted the blood-soaked towel to look at the injury. A green tendril lodged under his skin, pulsing as blood streamed from the small entry wound on his forearm.

  I got him to hold the arm above his head and apply pressure, which slowed the flow to a drip.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were fixing the fence,’ Enfield said. He looked green himself. ‘This is all my fault. I warned him, but…’

  John moaned, screwing up his face.

  ‘I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks,’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘What do ee think?’ he said. ‘Like a red-hot bloody poker.’

  Molly arrived, holding the first-aid box in both hands, and stood staring at the blood-stained table.

  ‘Can you get me a bowl of hot water?’ I took the box off her and pushed her in the right direction.

  I wasn’t sure what to do though I tried not to show it. To pull out the plant tendril might do more harm than good. I decided just to clean and bandage the wound. That should at least slow the bleeding until Dr Langstone could look at it.

  I opened the bottle of iodine. ‘This will sting a bit.’

  He grimaced, but didn’t make too much fuss while I bandaged him.

  ‘There, you're tidier now. Molly, I think tea would be a good idea.’

  Enfield and Molly seemed more in need of tea than the patient, who had perked up now he’d stopped bleeding.

  ‘I’d better see if I can find Dr Langstone. Do you have any idea where he might be, Molly?’

  John got to his feet. ‘Don’t trouble eeself. I’m well enough, and I’ll not bide in this mad-house a minute more. Molly, are you coming with me, or not?’

  ‘Oh, John.’ Molly threw herself into his arms.

  The pair departed, glued together, leaving Enfield and I sitting at the kitchen table.

  ‘They’re cousins,’ Enfield said, rather bemused.

  ‘I hope they’ll be very happy.’ I sighed and started tidying up.

  ‘Are you going to say, I told you so?’ He sat with his head on his hand, watching the blood sink into the grain of the table.

  ‘Cheer up. It could be worse,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ He met my eyes. ‘I’m sorry, you were right. I’ll destroy the plants. No one else will be hurt.’

  ‘Good,’ I said.

  We sat for a moment, not speaking.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said. ‘About what you told me. The Professor and the letter he sent you.’

  ‘What about it?’ I had assumed he was thinking about me rather than the other business, which was a long way from my thoughts.

  ‘It may be nothing, but the Professor didn‘t know you would come here, be living in this house, and look at the Sherlock Holmes book.’

  ‘I suppose not. But I did.’

  ‘Yes, but he couldn’t rely on any of that happening. So any clue he really wanted you to find couldn’t be hidden in this house. It would have to be somewhere you had access to, whatever the circumstance.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure that helps.’

  He shrugged. ‘It was just a thought.’ He got up and went to the door. ‘See you later?’

  I smiled. Alone, I continued tidying up. I mopped the worst of the blood off the table, then repacked the first-aid box. Bandage neatly rolled, bottle of iodine nestled back in place.

  An idea tickled the back of my mind, something important, if only it would become clear.

  I sat down. The iodine had stained my fingers brown where they weren’t already black from changing the typewriter ribbon. I’d scrubbed with soap until my hands were red and sore, but the ink was stubborn.

  The Professor’s letter, sent through Bentley, had been the first clue to the treasure hunt. He’d directed me to his gravestone. I thought the next clue would be there, but all I could see were the obvious messages, ‘Seek and ye shall find’ and ‘Trust in God alone’. Good advice, though not all that helpful. But perhaps that was all the Professor intended.

  Then there was Reverend Templeton’s pamphlet, included with the letter. By asking about him I’d found out about the witch’s brew. Most likely that was the Professor’s treasure: a new kind of drug, documented in his last journal.

  Enfield was right about the cipher message in the back of the Sherlock Holmes book. The Professor couldn’t have expected I would find it. It must have been an afterthought. It didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know anyway. Langstone was researching the witch’s potion and he wanted to find the journal.

  But I hadn’t found the final clue, the clue which would tell me where the Professor had hidden his last journal. Where could it be? There was one obvious place I hadn’t looked for a clue. Well, I had looked, but I hadn’t seen.

  I raced out of the door, slamming into Mrs Jones on her way in.

  ‘What has been going on here?’ She fended me off indignantly.

  I was too excited to be polite. ‘Sorry. Bit of an accident, gardener hurt. Molly’s left.’

  ‘What? She can’t have left. Who’s going to help with the dinner?’

  Ignoring her, I pounded up the stairs to my room. Where was the letter? I threw books and clothes to the floor, feverishly searching. Finally, I found it, marking my place in ‘Introduction to Secretarial Work’. I flattened out the much-folded paper on the bedside table, under the window.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  WHEN I HELD the letter up to the light at an angle, I could just make out faint scratches in the otherwise blank space under the signature. It could be nothing, but now I looked at the letter with fresh eyes, the significant words jumped out at me. Hidden. Reveal. Heat.

  There was only one way to be certain. I needed heat.

  The kitchen range would be ideal. The only problem was Mrs Jones, who would be c
ooking, if she hadn’t set off in pursuit of Molly. After a moment’s thought I tucked the letter into my skirt and trotted downstairs.

  Mrs Jones was not in the kitchen though a pot steaming on the hot plate suggested she hadn’t gone far. Perhaps I had a few minutes. I crossed to the range. The hot plate seemed hot enough for my purposes, maybe too hot. I folded the letter into a tea towel.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Mrs Jones bustled in with an armload of potatoes.

  I flinched from her glare. The vegetables bounced and rolled on the kitchen table.

  ‘I…’ I didn’t know what to do with the tea towel. ‘Mr Rickett wanted tea. I knew you’d be busy, what with Molly going, so I thought I would…’

  ‘You thought, did you?’ She thumped an errant potato on the table. Her face twitched. ‘Tea. At this hour.’

  ‘Well, the poor man’s been in bed all day with his shoulder. And you can’t run round after him on top of your usual work, it’s too much to manage.’ Just the right tone of condescension.

  She turned on me with the vegetable knife. The heat of the range reminded me not to step back.

  ‘You. Get out. If he wants tea, I’ll get it for him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I edged away, clutching the tea towel enfolded letter to my chest. ‘Oh, well. If you’d rather.’

  Keeping the table between me and the knife, I escaped into the corridor, dodged round the corner and waited.

  Sure enough, after a long minute the distinct rattle of a tea tray announced she had left the kitchen on her errand of mercy. I dived back into the kitchen. Mrs Jones had to climb the stairs and go to Rickett’s room. Presumably there would be a short conversation, then she’d retrace her steps. I had a few clear minutes to heat the letter and make my escape before she reappeared.

  I pressed the paper, still folded in the towel, to the hot plate and put a heavy pan on top. And waited, pacing in circles round the table, straining to hear returning footsteps. My heart beat double-time.

  There are several substances that will serve as simple ‘invisible inks’: sugar water, vinegar, fruit juices, or milk all work in the same way. You write your message and when the ‘ink’ dries, nothing can be seen. To reveal the words you just have to heat the paper, which turns the colourless ‘ink’ brown. I had no idea what the Professor had used or how long I’d have to heat the letter. Better too much time than too little, but I didn’t want to face Mrs Jones again.

  It seemed a long time, though only minutes by my watch, when I heard footsteps descending the back-stairs. I snatched up the hot cloth and ran out of the kitchen, round the corridor, through the heavy door into the hall, skidded across the tiles and charged up the stairs as if dogs were after me.

  I didn’t stop until I reached my room. With shaking hands I unfolded the cloth.

  Were there brown marks on the previously blank paper?

  Rain drummed on the window pane, washing the outside in rivers of water. The light wasn’t good. I held the letter up, squinting at the faint brown letters.

  Last journal hidden Uggley Church.

  I collapsed on the bed. Only days ago I’d resolved to give up the search, yet now my heart raced at the prospect of finding the Professor’s journal. This was it, the final clue I’d wanted for so long. I’d solved the Professor’s last puzzle.

  I had to go to the church. But it was nearly dusk and rain fell in solid rods from a black sky. I paced the extent of my little room, too excited to sit still. The sensible course of action was to wait until tomorrow. The journal wouldn’t go anywhere overnight.

  Somehow, I got through dinner and the rest of the evening. With Rickett still in bed and Enfield morose, it was quiet. If Mrs Jones knew I’d tricked her, she gave no sign. At least, she said nothing and her evil eye was no more than usually evil.

  Thursday morning began loudly.

  ‘No.’ In the hall, Sam faced his father, both bristling.

  ‘Whaddya mean, no?’ Rickett was shading to purple, contrasting with the white sling he wore on his left arm. His son, who stood three inches taller than him, though several stones lighter, backed away.

  ‘I mean no. I won’t work on the Machine any more. I want to be a poet.’

  ‘What? You good-for-nothing half-grown streak of piss. After everything I’ve done for you.’ Rickett thrust his fist in Sam’s face.

  Sam stood his ground. ‘You’ve done nothing for me but bully me and push me around. I’m not having it. I’m going. That stupid Machine is dangerous. It will never work.’

  ‘Why you…!’ Rickett launched himself at Sam, grabbing him round the throat with his good hand.

  Sam fell to the ground. ‘Help! Murder!’ He pushed at Rickett and flailed with his fists.

  Rickett cried out in pain as a random blow hit his bad arm. ‘I’ll kill you!’

  I ran in and seized Rickett by his good shoulder, trying to haul him away. ‘Stop it! Both of you!’

  Mrs Jones screamed in the background. Rickett snarled and landed another blow on Sam’s face. At this point, Enfield turned up. His superior strength settled the situation quickly.

  With Enfield still holding his good arm, Rickett stood at one side of the hall, cursing and groaning. Sam remained on the ground, staring sullenly at his father. Blood dribbled from a cut lip. Enfield pushed Rickett into the dining room, so I got Sam on his feet and took him to the kitchen.

  ‘I hate him,’ he said. ‘Ow.’

  ‘This will go quicker if you stay still.’ I dabbed at his face with a wet cloth. ‘Anyway, you don’t hate him. He’s your father.’

  ‘Yes, I do. He’s a bully and a… tyrant.’

  ‘I expect he means well.’ My brain caught up with my mouth. ‘But you’re right to want to get away from him.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes.’ I inspected his face critically. He’d have impressive bruises later. ‘There. Does that feel better?’

  He prodded his cheekbone, wincing. ‘Not really. But thanks.’

  I gave him an encouraging smile.

  ‘You’ve been so kind, Miss Wright.’ He flushed, his eyes fixed on me like a spaniel hoping for a biscuit. ‘I know I’m too young, and you’re… older, but what I feel for you is so… I have to know, if you could ever…’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I very much like you, Sam, but not at all in that way.’ His face fell. Poor kid. He was awfully sweet, though completely brainless. I suppressed the urge to laugh.

  ‘I’m so sorry. You must think I’m a fool.’ He stared at the table. ‘I just thought. You liked the flowers, didn’t you?’ He met my eye again with sudden hope.

  ‘Oh! The flowers. That was you?’ I felt an idiot for not having realised before.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ His mouth twisted.

  ‘They were very nice flowers. Really, Sam.’ I patted his hand. ‘I’m flattered. I hope we can still be friends.’

  For once, I was grateful to see Mrs Jones. Langstone wasn’t far behind. He stopped on the threshold, squinting against the light streaming in through the high kitchen windows.

  ‘Ah, there you are. You’ll be pleased to hear your father’s not badly hurt.’

  Sam jumped to his feet. ‘He’s not badly hurt! What about me?’

  ‘Hmm. Well, he’s in a good deal of pain and very upset. He won’t be able to work for several weeks. He needs your help.’

  ‘I don’t care. The stupid Machine can go rust.’

  ‘I’ve made him as comfortable as I can. If you apologise, I’m sure he’ll forgive you.’

  ‘No! I don’t have anything to apologise for. And you can tell him that.’

  Langstone shrugged. ‘As you will. In any event, under the circumstances, I think it would be best if you both left. Can you drive him?’

  ‘I can be civil if he is.’

  ‘Perhaps this evening, after dinner. Gives you both time to pack and calm down a bit.’

  After everyone had settled down and breakfasted, I remembered about the journal, which
the commotion had almost driven from my mind. Before anything else could come up, I slipped out of the house.

  It had rained all night. The world smelt of wet grass and the sea. A continuous sheet of shallow water covered the drive in front of the house and much of the lawn beyond. The morning sun gilded the edges of dark clouds. I walked fast, hunched against the cold, picking my way round the worst of the puddles.

  The churchyard lay silent under a troubled sky. No one was about.

  I was no expert in churches. Father had educated me on a strictly rational plan, so I had never had much interest in religion, and neither architecture nor history had ever been enthusiasms of mine. The church building was obviously old. Reverend Templeton’s pamphlet, which I had brought with me in case it contained a vital clue, informed me the building dated from the 6th century. That sounded unlikely, but it was hardly important.

  Comparing the lop-sided sketch on the cover of his pamphlet to the building in front of me, I realised it was perfectly accurate. The whole building leaned towards the sea. As the stones had sunk into the soft earth, the walls had been shored up with fresh masonry. Since the locals used whatever brick or stone happened to be on hand, the result was a patchwork of historical architecture. Here, a sideways Roman inscription, there, half a Tudor mullion.

  The door of the church was shut but not locked. I stood inside, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Light filtering in through the small, dirty, stained-glass windows illuminated the white-washed walls in floods of murky red and blue. The enclosed air smelt musty like ancient rotting wood.

  According to the pamphlet, there should be a remarkable mural. I soon spotted the remnants of coloured plaster and went over for a closer inspection. Only faded fragments remained of what must originally have been a startling depiction of the Last Judgement. In the best preserved part, the twisted, naked bodies of the suffering damned could still be seen, shepherded by demons with the heads of beasts. The largest figure towered over the tiny sinners, a fish-man tearing at their flesh with shark’s teeth. Ravaged flesh and drops of blood had been painted with more enthusiasm than artistic skill.