The Lost Island

by Laura Powell

  Nate threw down his mop. ‘Listen here: for all we know, Lady Hawk could’ve hunted down her keys with magic. Then if they’d turned up in any ordinary hiding place, she’d know for sure someone in her household was out to get her. This way, we’ve bought ourselves some time – time to put a stop to Lady Hawk, and protect everyone on this island. Yes, I’m sorry about Miss Jenks – for all that she were a nasty piece of work – but we didn’t have a whole lot of choices, as I recall. So maybe you should get down from your high horse for a minute.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I ain’t forgotten what you said just before you went into that mirror maze. You hinted how you was part of something bigger, something secret, that you won’t or can’t tell me about. All right, then. But you can’t ask for my help and order me about, then expect me just to shut my mouth and get on with it. We’re both of us servants, remember.’

  Pattern flushed. ‘I have never ordered you about.’

  ‘No? “Stay here, keep back, do this, do that, don’t ask questions . . .”’

  Pattern was ashamed. In Elffinberg, when she had joined the Grand Duchess Eleri’s battle against her uncle, she had resented being bossed about and not listened to, when she knew her ideas were good ones. It was only when she began to stand up for herself that she and Eleri became true friends. Had her membership of the Silver Service gone to her head?

  ‘I want to get stuck in,’ Nate continued. ‘Course I do. After all, it’s in my own interest that we get off this devilish island in one piece, and not get turned into a pair of pumpkins or what have you. But that don’t make me your skivvy.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Pattern, ‘and I’m sorry.’

  ‘You know, it ain’t weakness to ask for help. It don’t make you any less clever or capable.’

  Now Pattern felt a different kind of shame. Nate had been brave and loyal. He deserved better treatment from her, but his abilities were also a valuable resource. She had been in danger of letting her pride get in the way of her doing the best possible job.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I cannot reveal everything of my history, but I can say that I am here on behalf of the family of a young man who went missing while courting Miss Hawk. He too was invited to an island gathering where strange things were afoot. So, yes, I was prepared to encounter Dark Arts when I joined this household. That does not mean I feel at all confident in my efforts to repel them. I am very thankful to have your assistance.’

  Her speech was more formal than she intended, and she spoke somewhat stiffly; perhaps this was why Nate did not look entirely satisfied.

  ‘You really can’t tell me who you’re working for?’

  ‘It is not my secret to tell. It’s not that I don’t trust you—’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, heatedly, ‘seeing as how I saved you from being turned into a garden ornament.’

  ‘And I am truly grateful, believe me. Not just for your help, but . . . but for your companionship also.’

  Nate chewed at his lip. ‘All right. I understand you got prior loyalties, or what have you. But whoever sent you to this island ain’t here now. You got me, or nothing. So how about the two of us make a pledge of our own – a pledge to help each other, and trust each other, and work as a team. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Pattern solemnly shook his outstretched hand. It was heartening to know their alliance was now official, for it struck her with renewed force how lonely and uncomfortable her time on Cull would be if she did not have Nate to talk to.

  ‘But don’t think I’ve given up on winkling out your secrets,’ he added. ‘One of these days, I’m going to get the whole story out of you, Miss Penelope Pattern.’

  Pattern and Nate’s new alliance was soon put to the test, for their next challenge was to gather more snowdrops. Thanks to the shrinking of the house party, and the general absent-mindedness of those tasked with serving it, they were able to slip away without too much trouble. Even more fortunately, Mr Grey was locked in consultation with Lady Hawk, and so was not around to block their way to the forbidden glade.

  ‘A snake is not the most fearsome creature in the world,’ said Pattern. ‘William beat it off with a rake. I believe reptiles are scared of fire too.’

  ‘Ah, but you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,’ said Nate.

  ‘You think we should try to tame it?’

  ‘Did you never see a snake charmer at a fair? There was an Indian fellow I saw once, with a great big turban and a beard, and a cobra in a basket. Now, the snake began to hiss and spit, but then the Indian, he played a tune on his pipe, and the creature calmed right down till it was docile as a baby. You’d swear it even had a grin on its face.’

  ‘But I am not musical . . .’

  ‘Don’t matter.’ Nate pulled out a penny whistle from his pocket. ‘I am.’

  The wood, when they reached it, was silent and cool, and the glade as starry with flowers as Pattern remembered. The trees were laced tightly overhead, blocking out nearly all the sun, and the velvety green scent of the flowers was almost overpowering. The scene looked entirely innocent. Pattern moved towards the nearest clump of snowdrops and tightened her grip on the trowel she had stolen from the garden shed.

  At once, the flowers in the centre of the glade began to stir. Something was making its way through the undergrowth. In moments, a thick snake, its scales patterned in checks of black, brown and yellow, was pouring itself over the ground towards her. It gave a rasping hiss, revealing the red arched roof of its mouth and razor-sharp fangs.

  Pattern jumped back and dropped the trowel on the ground. Her flesh crawled. However, once the creature saw that she had retreated from the flowers, it came no further, flicking its forked tongue at her from its snowy bed.

  Nate swallowed hard. Then he took out his penny whistle and moistened his lips. After a few false starts, he managed a wobbly version of ‘Scarborough Fair’.

  Pattern inched forward. The snake, which had been drawing its head back as if ready to strike, paused and flashed its amber eyes.

  Nate tried again, this time performing ‘The Bluebells of Scotland’, with only three wrong notes. The snake put its head to one side, as if to listen more attentively. Nate moved on to ‘Over the Hills and Far Away’.

  ‘I think it prefers the Scottish melody,’ Pattern whispered. She had a strange notion that the markings on its back resembled tartan.

  Nate kept tootling away, increasing in fluency as he increased in confidence. It was true the snake seemed to be much more soothed by the Scottish folk tunes. On hearing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, it even began to sway back and forth, as if in time to the music.

  Nate launched into ‘My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean’. Finally the snake’s eyes drooped.

  Heart in her mouth, Pattern darted forward with the trowel and thrust it as deeply as she was able into the rich black earth. She was lucky: the soil was loose, and a clump of flowers – roots and all – came free in just two vigorous scoops. Nate kept playing all the while. Once Pattern had wrapped the roots in a wet handkerchief and placed them in her basket, they were ready to go. Slowly and cautiously, still playing on the pipes, Nate backed away, Pattern at his side.

  They planted the snowdrops in a neglected corner behind the servants’ privy. With any luck, the plants would grow here undisturbed, replenishing their supply. Pattern’s sense of relief did not last long, for on returning to the villa she discovered what had really happened to Lord Charnly’s valet and Lady Hawk’s maid.

  It was eleven o’clock and the grandfather clock in the hall was striking the hour. Pattern had never paid it any particular attention, but on this occasion she glanced up as she heard the chimes. As the bell was struck, little panels to either side of the clock face flew open, revealing two miniature figures. One was a man, the other a woman, both dressed in the dark clothes of upper servants. Small as the automatons were, their features were plainly recognizable as Mr Stokes and Miss Jenks. Th
ey leaped in and out of their hatches in time to the chimes of the clock, before being shut up completely as the last echo died away. Pattern shuddered at the sight.

  For the first time, Pattern allowed herself to think what would become of them all if she – and Nate – failed to stop Lady Hawk. It was clear the enchantress’s prime target was Miss Hawk’s suitors. But what would become of the rest of the gathering once they were despatched? While the gentlemen were not entirely sympathetic characters, the ladies seemed harmless enough, and the remaining servants were honest and hardworking.

  Pattern had been reassured by the fact that when Henry Whitby disappeared, everyone else who had attended the party returned home unharmed. She was no longer comforted by this thought. The fate of Mr Stokes and Miss Jenks suggested that, on this occasion, Lady Hawk had no intention of letting anyone off the island.

  One of our most impressive recruits . . . Well, that could no longer be true. Pattern was perilously close to failure. So much for Mr Crichton’s confidence in her, so much for Mrs Jervis’s trust and Sir Whitby’s hopes! She knew her enemy, and she could guess the fate of Sir Whitby’s ward, yet could do nothing about either. Alas, she doubted any of her coded letters to the Silver Service had left the island. Cull was entirely cut off from the outside world.

  Instead of rescuing Henry Whitby, it looked as if Pattern was going to be in need of rescue herself.

  Pattern could not afford to dwell on her troubles. Now that her and Nate’s expedition to the woods was complete, she had to make up for lost time and devote herself to the duties of a housemaid rather than those of an investigator. She was preparing to dust the ground-floor reception rooms when she was distracted by the smell of burning. The smell drew her to the study where Captain Vyne had met his fate. It was the only room in the villa where the maids still laid a fire, as the Dowager liked to retire there for a nap after meals, and the old lady was liable to feel a chill even in Cull’s warm air.

  Pattern found someone had stuffed papers in the grate so forcibly that the fire was nearly choked out, and could only smoulder and smoke. She dug around in the hot ash with the tongs, and was most surprised to pluck out the charred remains of a book. With a jolt of excitement, she realized it must be the volume of Greek myths that Lady Hawk had confiscated from Miss Smith. Why had Lady Hawk been so anxious to destroy it? What secrets might it reveal?

  The pages were mostly burned away, although the singed spine and part of the contents page remained. The names of the tales were all entirely unfamiliar to Pattern, though she thought they might be arranged in pairs of names. Orpheus and Eurydice; Perseus and Andromeda; Glaucus and Scylla . . .

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Glaucus Grey, the steward, was looming behind her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Even the remissness and ingratitude of our servants may furnish us with a lesson.

  Mrs Taylor, Practical Hints to Young Females

  Pattern scrambled to her feet and attempted to dust ash off her hands. ‘One of milady’s books appears to have fallen into the fire, so I was attempting to recover it . . . Please, sir, but is this who you were named after?’

  The steward’s eyebrows shot upwards at her impertinence. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Pattern showed him the sooty list of contents. ‘Glaucus and Scy – Scy –’ She stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

  ‘It is pronounced Silla,’ Mr Grey snapped. Then he gave a slightly self-conscious cough. ‘But the similarity in wording is a coincidence only. Glaucus is an, er, old Cornish name.’

  Pattern did not find this entirely convincing.

  ‘Lady Hawk enjoys the art of the ancient world,’ she said. ‘This house is full of treasures from that time. I would have thought she liked the stories too.’

  ‘My lady’s reading habits are no business of yours. You are a housemaid, not a librarian.’

  But Pattern pressed on. ‘One can learn from books in quite unexpected ways. I used to think fairy tales were for children . . . till I met a man who said they contained many truths about the world.’

  Mr Grey’s face grew dark. ‘The Greek myths are not fairy tales. There are no happy endings in them. There is only blood and madness and tragedy. Mortals suffer and are punished, while the gods laugh.’

  A chill went down Pattern’s spine. She began to wonder anew about Lady Hawk’s abilities, and how deeply rooted the woman was in the bloodstained powers of stories of the past. The island, she thought, had the feel of something ancient as well as foreign. But what was Mr Grey’s place in all this? He appeared to be Lady Hawk’s faithful servant, yet his words about the Greek myths felt more like a warning than a threat. Perhaps it was not affection for his mistress that kept him loyal, but fear.

  ‘I find you interesting, young Penny,’ the old man continued. ‘Interesting . . . and curious. We have not had such an enquiring visitor for a very long time. I wonder if, despite all my warnings, you have been trespassing among the snowdrops again? I wonder if it is mere coincidence that my lady’s projects have met with recent difficulty?’

  She supposed he was referring to the mechanical failure of Miss Hawk. ‘I am very sorry to hear milady is experiencing difficulties,’ she said blandly. ‘I had not noticed it.’ Her heart was banging against her ribs, but she told herself that if the old man was going to turn her over to Lady Hawk then surely he would have already done so.

  ‘Don’t forget your place, little maid. Those who tangle with the powers that be are apt to get their fingers burned.’

  Then he took the sooty remains of the book from her hand and poked it back into the grate, using the bellows to send the flames leaping upwards so that sparks flew, and the fire hissed.

  Luncheon was taken out on the terrace, which allowed Pattern to observe the party from the windows of the adjacent rooms as she went about her work. First, however, she had to shoo away another of Lady Hawk’s pets – a black-and-white-spotted pig that had made its home in the dining room. It grunted in a most aggrieved manner when Pattern closed the door on its snout.

  By midday, Miss Hawk was twitching and creaking worse than ever, and although her voice often stammered to a stop, her powers of fascination still held the gentlemen. No matter how persistently the other ladies enquired after Miss Hawk’s health, or how many meaningful remarks they made about fragile constitutions and nervous disorders, the gentlemen resolutely failed to take the hint. The Reverend Blunt and Mr Ladlaw were tireless in their devotion. Despite their collection of bloody scrapes, no reference was made to their recent duel, and they were icily polite to each other at all times.

  Thus far, Pattern had found Mr Ladlaw something of a puzzle. He was generally silent and brooding, and kept himself to himself when not attending to Miss Hawk. As part of her preparations for infiltrating the party, Pattern had read those of his poems that had appeared in the London Poetical Review. They had been melancholy musings on nature and its hostility to man, and, though Pattern did not really feel qualified to judge, it seemed clear he had talent. She had also taken the time to read his book, The Towers of Callabrio, which displayed the same descriptive powers as his poetry, but was considerably more entertaining, with a very strong-willed heroine, and full of romantic, supernatural and blood-curdling adventure.

  It was exactly the kind of novel that female servants were strongly discouraged from reading. Indeed, Mrs Minchin, principal of the Academy of Domestic Servitude, had always said such books corrupted the mind and led to all manner of Moral Decay. Pattern, no stranger to blood-curdling adventure herself, still found herself turning the pages of The Towers of Callabrio with increasing interest and urgency. A little moral decay was a risk worth taking for such excitement, in her opinion.

  However, Mr Ladlaw’s talents had suffered a steep decline since coming to Cull. When tidying his room, Pattern had found the scribbled drafts of love poems to Miss Hawk. They were extremely dreary ramblings in which his beloved was described as possessing curls ‘as golden a
s Cupid’s bow’, lips ‘like two dancing cherries’, and eyes that were ‘pools to drown love in’. But perhaps it was unfair to judge them too harshly, given the man was labouring under an enchantment. Pattern was more interested in the fact that the handwriting was a match for the letter over which she had found Miss Smith sighing. It had been a love letter, she was sure of it.

  The Reverend Blunt was an easier man to get the measure of, and the more Pattern saw of him the more she disliked him. Over luncheon on the terrace, the conversation turned to Miss Jenks, for over the course of the morning the story of her crime had travelled through the house. Lady Hawk remained distracted and out of sorts, unwilling to fully engage in the conversation. Nonetheless, the ladies and gentlemen took up the subject enthusiastically, united in their outrage.

  ‘Betrayal in servants is a very particular evil,’ proclaimed Honoria Blunt. ‘For at least your common criminal is not living in one’s home and eating one’s food, all at one’s own expense.’

  ‘I must confess that I never liked the look of Miss Jenks,’ said the Dowager. ‘She dressed far too finely for a servant.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Adele Grant, ‘there was something sly about her, I always thought.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the smallness of her eyes,’ suggested Alicia.

  Miss Smith, as was her custom, just drooped and sighed.

  No one was more outraged than the Reverend, however. He was one of those Christians who believed forgiveness is God’s business, and punishment man’s.

  ‘Of course the wretched woman should face the full weight of the law,’ he began. ‘Too many servants have grown soft and idle through good living, resulting in an altogether shocking sense of entitlement. It is this laughable sense of their own importance that leads them to abuse the trust of their betters. Such treacheries are a kind of modern plague.’