The Whispers in the Walls (Scarlet and Ivy, Book 2)

by Sophie Cleverly

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015

  HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

  HarperCollins Publishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Scarlet and Ivy : The Whispers in the Walls

  Text copyright © Sophie Cleverly, 2015

  Illustration copyright © Manuel Sumberac, 2015

  Cover illustration © Manuel Šumberac

  Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers 2015

  Sophie Cleverly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780007589203

  Ebook Edition © October 2015 ISBN: 9780007589210

  Version: 2015-09-10

  Praise for

  “This is one of the best books I have ever read. It was exciting, funny, warm and mysterious.” Lily, aged 9

  “The whole book was brilliant … after the first paragraph it was as though Ivy was my best friend.” Ciara, aged 10

  “This book is full of excitement and adventure — a masterpiece!” Jennifer, aged 9

  “This is a page-turning mystery adventure with puzzles that keep you guessing.” Felicity, aged 11

  “A brilliant and exciting book.” Evie, aged 8

  “The story shone with excitement, secrets and bonds of friendship … If I had to mark this book out of 10, I would give it 11!” Sidney, aged 11

  In memory of Sir Terry Pratchett.

  “Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Scarlet

  Chapter Two: Ivy

  Chapter Three: Scarlet

  Chapter Four: Ivy

  Chapter Five: Scarlet

  Chapter Six: Ivy

  Chapter Seven: Scarlet

  Chapter Eight: Ivy

  Chapter Nine: Scarlet

  Chapter Ten: Ivy

  Chapter Eleven: Scarlet

  Chapter Twelve: Ivy

  Chapter Thirteen: Scarlet

  Chapter Fourteen: Ivy

  Chapter Fifteen: Scarlet

  Chapter Sixteen: Ivy

  Chapter Seventeen: Scarlet

  Chapter Eighteen: Ivy

  Chapter Nineteen: Scarlet

  Chapter Twenty: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-One: Scarlet

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Scarlet

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Scarlet

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ivy

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Scarlet

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty: Scarlet

  Chapter Thirty-One: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Scarlet

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Scarlet

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Scarlet

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Scarlet

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Sophie Cleverly

  About the Publisher

  ALIS GRAVE NIL

  NOTHING IS HEAVY FOR THOSE WHO HAVE WINGS

  ROOKWOOD SCHOOL MOTTO

  My name is Scarlet Grey, and until today I thought I would be lost forever.

  I was taken away from Rookwood School in the dead of night, locked away in an asylum and given a new name. They told me I was crazy. They told me I’d imagined everything that had happened.

  Everyone else forgot about me.

  Everyone but my twin sister Ivy …

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought I was seeing my reflection on the other side of the window. And then she moved.

  She put her hand up against the glass. For a minute, I just stared. Our eyes met through the window, and I held up my own hand – a perfect mirror image.

  I was saved!

  Throwing the doors open, I ran outside, Nurse Joan calling after me. I skidded to a halt and hurled my arms around my twin.

  “Ivy! Is it really you?”

  She looked back at me, and immediately burst into tears.

  Maybe I should have cried too, but I couldn’t. I’d never been so happy. I could’ve flown off the ground at that moment. She’d found me, I was being rescued, I was getting out of the asylum. I was free.

  So instead, I laughed. I laughed and I span my sister round until she had no choice but to laugh through her tears, and we both collapsed by the pond in a heap.

  “Oh, Scarlet,” she sobbed. “Miss Fox told me you were dead. I … I believed her, I really did. Father believed you were dead too. But then I found your diary, and I pieced it all together, but still I … I never thought …”

  I realised then that we weren’t alone. The nurse and the secretary had stepped outside, but that wasn’t all.

  “Miss Finch!” I jumped up. “Why are you here?”

  My old ballet teacher was staring at me, happiness and shock mixing in her wide eyes. “Hello, Scarlet,” she said. She ran a hand through her red hair and exhaled loudly. “I can’t believe this. You are alive. I think I need to sit down.”

  I guided her to a bench, and she sank down awkwardly. “When I get hold of my mother …” she muttered.

  Her mother?

  Ivy clambered up from the ground, still shaking and clearly torn between smiling and sobbing. “We’ll get you out of here,” she said.

  Reality came crashing down around me. What if the doctors wouldn’t let me go? What if they still thought I was insane?

  I turned to my twin. “Did it all really happen?” I asked quietly. “All of it? Violet’s scheming? The fight on the rooftop? Miss Fox taking her away?”

  Ivy stared back at me for a moment, and then she nodded. “All of that, and more …”

  Miss Finch went back inside with the secretary. I almost tried to stop her going, half worried that they’d persuade her to leave me here. But she said she would set things right and get me discharged.

  Ivy and I sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench next to the pond. It was just like we’d done so many times at our aunt Phoebe’s house when we’d stayed there as children, long before Ivy went to live with her.

  Once I’d convinced her that I was all in one piece, Ivy told me everything that had happened. I learnt about how she’d been forced to go to Rookwood and pretend to be me, the hunt for the diary entries, her new friend Ariadne, evil, money-hungry Miss Fox and her secret daughter: Miss Finch.

  For the first time in my life, I was speechless.

  When she’d finished, I was gaping like one of the goldfish. Finally, I managed to say something.
>
  “You know what this means?”

  “What?” she said.

  “I’m a GENIUS. My plan actually worked! You found the trail I left you!”

  Ivy gave me a withering look. “You’re the genius?”

  I grinned.

  “What’s happened to you?” she asked, her face suddenly slipping back into concern. “This place, I can’t imagine …”

  I wasn’t ready for that question. I frowned, feeling sick. Despite everything, I was free, that was all that mattered now, wasn’t it?

  “Please,” she insisted. “I need to know.”

  A thought occurred to me. In the pocket of my horrible regulation grey smock, I had something that could answer all her questions. Wordlessly, I handed it over.

  I am insane.

  At least, that’s what they tell me. I didn’t believe it at first. Of course I wasn’t insane. I knew what I’d seen. Her name was Violet, and Miss Fox made her disappear. I was there. I’d written it all down, hadn’t I?

  Doubt crept in. They said I was having delusions, that I’d dreamt up a scenario on a rooftop, where a teacher had made a girl disappear. Doctor Abraham told me it couldn’t be true. Why would a teacher do that? It didn’t make any sense. It was a delusion, created out of my dislike for Miss Fox, he said. All I had to do was admit that I’d made the whole thing up and they’d consider sending me home.

  Well, I wouldn’t admit it, obviously. And I’m not even sure that I want to go home. Of course I want to leave this living hell, but my father and stepmother haven’t so much as written me a letter. If they know I’m locked up in here, then they don’t care a jot. The only person who cares is Ivy, and she can’t possibly know. Because she’d come to get me out if she did.

  Wouldn’t she?

  So, anyway, the days pass. They keep calling me Charlotte, no matter how many times I tell them that’s not my name. I have a tiny room, like a cell, with bars on the windows. It’s painted this horrible shade of mint green that makes me want to vomit. But I’ve spent so much time staring at the walls now that I could draw you a picture of every crack and every paint bubble and every tiny strand of spiderweb.

  I have to see Doctor Abraham at noon on weekdays. He says I have a “mental disease”, but honestly he seems to think being a girl is enough of a mental disease on its own. For the first few appointments I just screamed at him and knocked his papers off his desk, demanding he let me out, and all he would say was, “You’re being hysterical, Charlotte”.

  Hysterical! I’d like to see how he’d react if he were locked up in here and people tried to act like it was for his own good. “SCARLET!” I yelled back at him. “My name is “Scarlet!” It didn’t seem to help.

  I no longer have a diary. My old one, the lovely leather-bound book with SG scored on the cover, is now in pieces around Rookwood, where I prayed my twin Ivy would find it. Once upon a time Ivy had one the same, only with her initials, but she was always too busy with her nose in other people’s books to write down her own story.

  I begged and begged the nurses for a notebook to write in, and finally Sister Agnes gave in and brought me this one that she’d only used a few pages of. It was just grocery lists and dull things like “must send that package to Aunt Marie in Dover”, so I tore out the pages and made them into tiny paper planes, which passed a good half hour in this place, where the days are long and empty.

  I wish I knew how long I’d been here. Until today I had no way to count the days. I tried scratching marks into the paint, but it had been done by so many inmates before me that I couldn’t keep track of my marks.

  But … I’m not like them. Some of them are truly disturbed, they cry and shriek all the time, and I don’t.

  It’s just … sometimes, I think perhaps, just maybe, the doctor is right. Why would I be in an asylum if I was perfectly sane? Maybe I just made up the whole thing.

  I dreamt that I had a twin who would always be there. I dreamt that I was my father’s little girl, that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. I dreamt that there was a girl named Violet who disappeared into thin air.

  The only way that I’ll know if it was all real is if Ivy finds me. But it’s been so long now … it could be too late. The trail I left could have been destroyed; Miss Fox could have found it and tossed it into a fire.

  I must have hope. Ivy will find me. She’ll come.

  I know it.

  I watched the tears roll down Ivy’s face.

  “You did it,” I said. “You found me!”

  She tossed the tatty notebook aside and swept me into a bone-crushing hug.

  “I’m never losing you again,” she promised.

  It’s not easy having to tell your father that, despite him believing the opposite, you’re not dead. But looking on the bright side: at least I was alive to tell him that.

  Ivy and I knocked on the door of our childhood home the day after that first telephone call from the asylum (a lot of silence followed by a lot of shouting). Miss Finch had managed to get the school to pay for a room in a boarding house while everything was sorted out and Father made his way back from London.

  It was a cold day at the beginning of November, and we stood shivering on the steps of the cottage.

  The door was opened by a hideous she-troll.

  “Oh. There’s two of you again,” she sneered.

  “How nice to see you, dear stepmother,” I replied, pushing past her.

  She huffed indignantly at me as Ivy followed me in. “Scarlet, if you think you can walk around like you own the place just because of what happened, then you’ve got another thi—”

  She froze mid-sentence at the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Suddenly she put on a different expression like a mask, and pulled us into her arms. “Oh, girls,” she simpered. “I’m just so glad to have you home safe.”

  Father stepped down into the hall. When his eyes met mine, he took a deep breath and adjusted his tie.

  “Scarlet,” he said.

  “Father.”

  “I just … I can’t believe it. You’re here.” His normally cold exterior was showing some cracks – tears glinted in his eyes. I broke free of my stepmother, ran over and embraced him. He wrapped his arms around the back of my head, not quite touching me, but it was closer than we’d been in years.

  Ivy hung back. “We need to tell you everything,” she said. “Rookwood isn’t just awful, it’s dangerous. And what Miss Fox did—”

  Our stepmother snorted. “It’s all over now, isn’t it? This Miss Fox has run away. There’s no need to trouble your father with such things.”

  Father straightened up and looked at his wife. “No, Ivy’s right,” he said. “I want to understand how this happened. Let’s go to the study.”

  He led us away from her, and I couldn’t help feeling a little amused by how horrified she looked at being left out of the conversation. Why did she want to avoid the subject of what had happened, anyway?

  We walked through the house, past familiar doors and fireplaces and furniture. The landscape of my childhood. Harry, one of my young stepbrothers, peered round a door and stuck his tongue out at me. What a way to welcome your sister back from the dead! I reached over to give him a slap, but Ivy grabbed my wrist and pulled me past.

  Father’s study was still dull and sparsely furnished, with a mahogany writing desk, a chair and some filing cabinets. Ivy and I sat down on the floor, beside the fire that half-heartedly smouldered in the hearth.

  Father sat in the chair and began polishing his glasses.

  “I don’t know where to start,” Ivy said.

  “I do,” I replied.

  I told him everything that had happened. I told him about Vile Violet, my roommate who had bossed me around and spied on me and stolen my things. I told him about wicked Miss Fox, who had taken Violet away after she threatened to reveal a dark secret up on the rooftops. I told him how I’d tried to confront Miss Fox, only for her to smuggle me out of school and have me locked up in the asylu
m.

  Father stared intently at the wall above my head, but I could tell he was listening from the sharp intake of breath every time I got to a shocking moment.

  Ivy chimed in towards the end, telling him what had happened at Rookwood in the meantime. I’d heard more of her story in the boarding house and on the train. How Miss Fox had hidden me away to save her own skin, to stop anyone finding out that she had an illegitimate daughter. Not to mention that she was funding her lifestyle with the money paid by parents as school fees (perhaps explaining why the only thing on the dining hall menu was stew).

  “It was a nightmare, Father,” I finished, “and I’m just so glad to be home. So can we stay?”

  He looked at me. “No.”

  “Why?” I gaped at him.

  He took off his glasses and put them down on the desk. “Scarlet, you know why. You’ve got to go back to school.”

  I felt a wave of unease wash over me.

  “But Father, someone from that school put Scarlet in an asylum and pretended she was dead,” said my twin. “You can’t send us back there!”

  I looked at her, surprised that shy, timid Ivy had spoken out for once. But our father didn’t seem to notice. “It was just that Miss Fox character. And she won’t be returning.”

  I stood up, fists clenched. “I won’t go back there! You can’t make me!”

  Father didn’t rise to it. “Edith hasn’t got time to run around after you two. She has the boys to think of.”

  Edith. Our stepmother. I hated the way he said her name. It was clear he cared about her more than he cared about us.

  I heard Ivy mutter something at the carpet.

  “What was that?” Father asked.

  She climbed to her feet. “I said, are you sure Edith wasn’t involved with this? She was the one that told us Scarlet was … you know … She was the one who identified the body, wasn’t she? She offered to take care of the funeral arrangements, everything …”

  Our father went deathly silent, and for a second I thought he was going to slap her. But his breath came out shakily and then he spoke again. “Don’t be foolish. She cares for you. We both do. That’s why we want to see you get an education, and become independent young ladies.”