The Secret Starling

by Judith Eagle

  There was nothing under the sofa or the bed, or in the wardrobe, the chest of drawers or the cubbyholes which lined the living room walls.

  Clara moved to the window and looked out. The view was different on this side of the building. Instead of looking out onto the centre of the city, here the crush of buildings began to thin out and far away in the distance, you could just about make out more space, woods and fields. ‘Think, Clara, think,’ she said, resting her head against the cold glass. What else had Peter told her about Stella?

  What had she forgotten?

  And then it came, the truth, a thunderbolt, crashing down on her like a heavy weight. The soup! Peter had told her about the soup! The soup that Stella had so ‘kindly’ made for Granny every day. The soup she’d left for her when she’d departed for Braithwaite Manor. The soup that Granny had told them she had consumed before taking a turn for the worse.

  Clara hurled herself into the kitchen and wrenched the fridge door open. There it was. An innocentlooking Tupperware container full of soup. Yet it was far from innocent. It was probably deadly.

  Clara yanked open the kitchen drawers. She only needed a sample. Enough for testing. She found a jumble of old plastic film canisters. Quickly, she uncapped the Tupperware and decanted a small amount of the liquid into one of them. Then she stuffed it into the waistband of her jeans for safekeeping, and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  There was no time to go to the police – she had to get to Yorkshire as soon as possible. It would mean taking the tube to King’s Cross Station, then a train. And then, what? A taxi across the moor? She hadn’t given a thought to the journey on the way here with Peter. Tackling it on her own was quite a different thing.

  She glanced at the star-shaped clock on Peter’s living room wall. It was already seven o’clock. At this rate she wouldn’t arrive at Braithwaite Manor until past midnight. Abruptly, she gathered her stuff and left the flat, tearing across the park and along the road until her breath came in great shuddery gasps. By the time she got to the Oval station, she could barely stand straight.

  ‘Clara, isn’t it? What’s the hurry?’

  It was Peter’s friend Stanley, looking at her in a funny way.

  ‘Got to get back to Yorkshire,’ she panted. Peter had trusted Stanley. She would have to as well. ‘Going to get the tube and then the train.’

  ‘Where’s Peter? With Elsa?’ He was still looking at her oddly. And then she realised. It was the way Cook and James used to look at her. It was the look of care. Of proper concern.

  ‘No. He’s why I’ve got to get to Yorkshire.’

  ‘Does Elsa know?’ Stanley looked serious. For the first time in ages, tears pricked at Clara’s eyes.

  ‘No,’ she said, taking a deep breath. She would trust him. ‘And she mustn’t know, not yet. She mustn’t worry. The nurse said.’

  Stanley was quiet for a moment. His eyes had seemed to soften when he had spoken Elsa’s name. Now Clara could almost see the thought patterns drifting across his face. ‘Come on then,’ he said at last. ‘My shift’s over. I’ll come with you on the tube and make sure you get safely on the train.’

  It was eight stops on the Underground. They sat in the end carriage and Stanley chatted to the guard, who was Stanley’s friend and who let Clara sit on the special guard’s seat.

  At King’s Cross they walked briskly to the platform. But when they got there the gates were shut and a chalked notice read:

  ‘But that’s too late!’ yelled Clara. People were looking at her but she didn’t care. So what if they thought she was having a tantrum. How could she possibly get to Braithwaite Manor if there were no trains?

  Stanley stood clicking his fingers. Was he humming? A sort of thinking hum. He seemed to be considering something.

  ‘Is it very important you get to Yorkshire? Very, very important?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ cried Clara. ‘Mrs Trimble would want me to, I know she would!’

  And then she saw resolve flash across Stanley’s face and she knew he had made up his mind. ‘Follow me,’ he said, still clicking his fingers, and he strode away. So Clara followed and he led her to a narrow road along the side of the station where a queue of taxis snaked along. She waited while he talked to one of the taxi drivers, who pointed several taxis down, and then the driver of the taxi he was pointing at leapt out and he and Stan greeted each other like long-lost brothers. Except it turned out they really were brothers (not long-lost ones) and the brother was called Terence, and he clicked his fingers just like Stanley and said, ‘Sure! No problem! Anything for my brother!’

  Terence, Stanley explained to Clara, would drive her all the way. Clara couldn’t say thank you enough. No wonder Peter liked Stanley so much.

  By the time Clara climbed into the cab and the engine thrummed into throaty life, it was dark. She asked Terence if he could drive via the Royal Opera House, and when they pulled up outside the stage door Clara went in, determined not to be put off by the doorman.

  ‘Sergei Ivanov is coming down to meet me and my friend after the show,’ she told the mean-eyed man. ‘Tell him we’re sorry, but his daughter has had to go to Braithwaite Manor in Yorkshire, near Leeds.’ The mean-eyed man stared at her as though he couldn’t believe her audacity. ‘You’d better tell him, or Mr Nureyev will have something to say about it,’ she added threateningly. And to her relief, he nodded.

  She had done what she could. She still didn’t know if Sergei Ivanov was her father. But she had left him a clue. What he chose to do next was up to him.

  The journey was a long one. They took the motorway and Terence drove so fast the trees and houses and pylons whizzed by in a blur. To pass the time, he told her about the games he and Stanley had played when they were boys in Jamaica, catching crabs and playing in the pumpkin vines; how when they came on the boat to England it was so cold they had to stay inside for a whole week. His words soothed Clara. He was happy for her just to listen and didn’t bombard her with questions that she didn’t have any answers for.

  It was very late when they finally arrived. Clara asked him to drop her a short way from Braithwaite Manor.

  It was a black night, a dark night. The wind howled and icy specks of rain pricked the air. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m going to surprise them,’ she reassured Terence as she climbed out and waved him off.

  She watched as the tail lights of the cab got further and further away, and when they were just dots in the distance she turned and ran towards the house. ‘Peter, I’m coming,’ she said out loud. She didn’t know why, but speaking the words somehow made her feel braver.

  The house loomed into view, dark and forbidding as always. And there was a thumping great board towering outside, just as Amelia-Ann had described.

  Peter was in there and Clara was going to rescue him. But as Clara ran towards the door, her foot caught on something. She went flying through the air and crashed with an almighty thud to the ground. There was a moment of searing pain and then all went dark.

  * * *

  Hours later, Clara woke to find herself in the governess’s old bedroom, except that it had been turned into a dormitory with six narrow beds lined up in rows. Her head throbbed and her ribs ached; even the murky morning light, seeping dully through the window, hurt her eyes. She groaned and rolled over, every bone in her body grating painfully against the hard mattress. She felt groggy and listless. For what seemed like ages, she lay there, stiff as a board, barely able to move.

  ‘Well, well, well, look who we have here then,’ came a stony cold voice. ‘Nice of you to drop by. I’m very cross you didn’t come with Morden when you were meant to.’

  Clara opened her eyes. A large woman was standing at the foot of her bed. She had the palest blue eyes that Clara had ever seen, hard and flinty like tiny chips of ice.

  ‘You must be Mrs Morden?’ ventured Clara. She would start by being polite, she thought.

  ‘Call me Matron,’ snapped the woman, ‘now you’re an inmate. Put these on.
’ She tossed some grey items of clothing at Clara. ‘And don’t forget the cap.’

  Clara sat up and kicked the clothes onto the floor. Polite wasn’t going to work. ‘You’re not having this house,’ she said boldly.

  Matron laughed. It sounded hollow and devoid of any warmth.

  ‘You’re too late, little girl. Your brother—’

  ‘He’s not—’

  ‘Do NOT interrupt! If there is one thing I cannot abide it is children who speak when they are not spoken to. You’ll learn that soon enough now you’re here.’ The woman paced up and down. She was holding a stick, Clara noticed, which she tapped on the floor at intervals. ‘As I was saying, the boy and you are our first inmates. You come with the sale of the house, as it were.’ She smiled a thin-lipped smile. Clara did not smile back.

  ‘Where is Peter?’ She had been right. He was here. ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘You most emphatically cannot. We keep boys and girls separately.’

  ‘Can I go to the bathroom then?’ If she could just get out of the room, maybe she could see a way to escape.

  ‘Use the pot under your bed. Then pick up those clothes and get dressed. I shall come and get you in half an hour.’ Mrs Morden tapped her way to the door and then turned back. ‘Breakfast. I’ve left some porridge over there.’ She pointed to a bowl of grey sludge with her stick and looked at Clara as though waiting to be thanked. But Clara kept her mouth shut.

  As soon as she had gone, Clara dashed for the door. It was locked.

  ‘Let me out!’ she shouted. ‘You can’t lock me in!’

  What had they done with Peter? And where was Stella? Was she here too?

  A sob rose in Clara’s throat. She felt like she was in a fog – she couldn’t think properly. ‘Peter!’ she shouted. ‘Peter!’ she shouted again, frantically pummelling the door. ‘Matron, Morden! Let me out!’

  Nothing. No one even came to tell her to shut up. She crossed the room back to the bed and sat down, head in hands. Think, think.

  A sudden gust of wind broke the silence, an insistent tap of rain started up at the windowpane. Clara looked up. The sky was the colour of dark purply bruises. She let out a long, jaggedy sigh. She felt almost as desolate as the moor looked.

  She had no idea what time it was but she guessed it was early morning. She wondered when Amelia-Ann and the others would arrive. She hoped it would be soon.

  But she couldn’t just sit here and wait. She had to do something.

  Clara had a sudden flash of Peter trying to stuff his foot into Christobel’s ballet shoe, pirouetting across the room, laughing. And then an image of him turning out his pockets to find the torch and that glimpse of her red ribbon. When she found him, she would tell him he could keep it.

  Clara leaned her head against the windowpane and sighed. It rattled gently. She tugged at the sash and it gave a little. Despite everything, a smile broke out across her face. The Mordens hadn’t thought to check the locks on the windows! They didn’t know that half of them were broken. She jerked at the sash again and it creaked open. Now Clara knew what she had to do. She would find Peter, then together they would go to the police and tell them everything, and then they would go to Granny.

  Clara pushed the sash all the way up and heaved herself onto the windowsill. The cold air hit her in the face, rushing headlong into her lungs, making her gasp. It was freezing, at least ten degrees colder than it had been in London. Below her, the scrubby patch that called itself a garden hobbled its way down to the tumbledown stone wall skirting the back of the house. Beyond that, the moors swept away, mile upon mile, battered and wind-torn.

  Clara looked down. She couldn’t jump. It was too far.

  She looked to her left.

  If she inched her way along the ledge and took a stride – a very long stride – she could reach the next ledge and a window that opened into what had been her bedroom. She could see, even from here, that the window was open a crack. Maybe, just maybe, the door to her room wasn’t locked.

  Clara placed her hands against the raspy brick wall and very carefully she sidestepped along. You shimmied down a rope, she told herself. All the way from the top of the turret. So you can do this, Clara, you can.

  When she reached the end of the ledge she braced her left leg and stretched her right one out until she was almost doing the splits, and just when she thought she couldn’t stretch any further, her foot made contact with the next ledge along. Carefully, she brought the left leg across to meet the right leg. She shunted along until she was in front of the window, bent down and pushed it open. It was just wide enough for her to crawl through into the room.

  Quickly she crossed to the door and gave a silent whoop when she found it wasn’t locked. Out in the corridor, she glanced up and down. She was opposite the bathroom. She remembered when she’d first met Peter, how they’d been a team, helping each other stem the flood.

  A flood!

  Clara almost hugged herself. It would be the perfect diversion!

  Matron had said she would be back in half an hour. She’d have to be quick. Clara scuttled into the bathroom and raced over to the once leaking pipes. Frantically she started to tear off the thick black duct tape, unwinding it round and round. They’d put loads of the stuff on! When she finally reached the chewing gum, it was rock hard. She yanked open the door of the cabinet above the sink and found the nail scissors. Grabbing them, she dug the scissors in deep, stabbing at it, easing up layer after layer of chewing gum. At last she reached the crack, and water, first a dribble and then a steady stream, gushed out. Quickly Clara shoved the plugs in the bath and sink and turned all the taps on. There, it was done.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As quickly as she could, Clara climbed back out of the bedroom window, made her way along the ledge and then slithered through the dormitory window. Immediately, she pulled on the scratchy grey woollen dress. It looked like the sort of thing workhouse children might’ve worn in Victorian times. She’d just done up the last button when the key turned in the lock.

  It was Matron, her milky blue eyes appraising her, her stick tapping once, twice on the floor. ‘Good, you’re dressed. It’s time to come down,’ she said.

  In the study, a feeble fire gasped its last breath in the grate. A man sat at Uncle’s desk, all bone and paper-white, liver-spotted skin. He looked like a wraith, something half dead. Standing in front of him was Peter, also dressed like a workhouse child. Relief swamped Clara.

  Peter turned as Clara came in, and although she could see tell-tale tracks of tears, he was standing straight and proud. Their eyes met and there was something about Peter’s look that gave her hope. She stared back, willing him to know that she was ready too. Ready to fight to the end, fight for him, for Braithwaite Manor, for Granny, for Christobel.

  ‘Good.’ Mr Morden’s cheese-grater voice intoned. ‘At last we are all here. Your guardian was none too pleased when she heard how difficult you’ve been.’

  ‘She?’ said Clara. ‘My guardian is not a she. He is Edward Starling.’

  ‘I think you’ll find you are mistaken.’

  Mr Morden stood up and came round to the front of the desk like some sort of predatory creature. Peter took a step back.

  He leaned down and thrust his face inches from Clara’s so that she could see his horrible yellow teeth close up. ‘You need to get it into that thick skull of yours that Matron and I are skilled in the art of’ – there was a pause – ‘reforming young people.’

  Clara shuddered. His breath stank of blocked drains.

  ‘And your guardian …’ Matron was speaking now, tapping her stick on the floor to emphasise her words, ‘is very keen we reform you.’ Tap tap tap. ‘Ms Stella Jones was particularly clear about that.’

  ‘You’ve made a mistake,’ Clara protested. ‘Stella was just looking after Peter while his granny was ill. But she’s not his guardian. Or mine!’

  ‘Be quiet!’ rapped Matron. ‘Enough nonsense. Ms Jones is most definitely you
r guardian’ – tap – ‘and she is selling this house to us.’ Tap, tap.

  ‘She can’t sell it,’ Clara cried wildly. ‘She’s no right!’

  ‘Too late,’ said Matron, with some satisfaction. ‘It’s almost done.’

  ‘Stella Jones is a poisoner,’ shouted Peter. ‘She won’t get away with it, and you won’t either. You can’t go around kidnapping people or buying houses from criminals.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve done nothing wrong,’ Mr Morden spoke quietly. ‘Your guardian has all the necessary papers. At this very moment she is with the solicitor, about to sign this property over to us. Brats included.’

  ‘You’re lying!’

  ‘I assure you, child, I am not. All I have to do is pick up this phone and tell them we have you both. Then the deal can go ahead and your guardian can be off to South America. I understand that is her intention.’

  Clara stared at Peter and he stared back at her. They had to find out where Stella was signing these papers and stop her monstrous plan. But before they could do anything or say anything else—

  ‘Ugh!’ A large drip of water had landed on Matron’s nose. ‘What’s that?’ Another one – drip, drip, drip. They all looked up. The ceiling was bulging, ballooning. Clara crossed her fingers, held her breath. Matron lifted her stick and prodded the protrusion. It was the wrong thing to do. But it was perfect. The ceiling, already weakened by previous floods, yielded like damp paper, a soggy sponge disintegrating. A hole the size of a golf ball bloomed and water spouted through.

  ‘Morden, what’s happening? Fix it,’ Matron rapped out. In three long strides, Mr Morden left the room and Clara bounded after him, ignoring Matron’s cries for her to ‘Halt! Come back!’ As he disappeared up the stairs, Clara tore along the passageway to James’s cupboard. There, hanging on the back of the door and neatly labelled, were all the available keys. Was there one for the bathroom? There was one for the study and bedrooms one, two, three, and yes! First-floor bathroom.