The Garden of Lost Secrets

by Ann-Marie Howell

  “I’m glad he did,” said Mr Gilbert. He gave his wife a small smile, as if perhaps things between him and his brother could be mended after all.

  Clara cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean to pry…or go through your things, Mrs Gilbert. And I’m truly sorry about Frank. It’s just…Mother had written to you and not me. And I thought you were…hiding things.”

  Mrs Gilbert reached up and grasped Clara’s right hand, giving it a squeeze. She pulled her down to the rug, until they were sitting opposite each other. Mrs Gilbert’s fingers were icy, like they had been dipped in a frozen pond. “I’m sorry I treated you so badly…you just…reminded me of what I had lost. The responsibility of having another child staying here…I found it hard. And you should call me Aunt Elizabeth. It…will be nice to hear that name again.” Her aunt’s hands felt less icy now, her face a little less pale and broken. “And I did hear from your mother, Clara. But she did not write. I spoke to her on the telephone – at the Big House.”

  Her mother had not written? She had been searching for letters which did not exist?

  “She…did not want to write until things were more…certain,” Clara’s uncle said gruffly.

  Her aunt’s face flushed a rosy pink. “We have been keeping a secret from you, Clara,” she said in a whisper. “About your family.”

  Clara’s insides folded in on themselves like a concertina.

  Her aunt stared straight into Clara’s eyes. “But I think it’s time you knew the truth.”

  The truth, the truth, the truth. The words rolled around Clara’s head in time with her breaths, which were jerky, like she had been skipping or jumping. She quickly pulled from her pocket the crumpled letter from the War Office and held it out to her aunt.

  Her aunt’s forehead crinkled. “What’s this?”

  “I…took it from the post-boy, just before Mother and Father left for Devon. I didn’t mean to keep it…but Father was so ill, and I was so worried. Then they left, and it was too late. I was going to give it to you, but then you…” Clara paused.

  Clara’s aunt gave her a look filled with quiet understanding. “I suppose I wasn’t quite the person you thought I was.”

  Clara gave her a brief nod.

  “Open the letter,” said Clara’s aunt, as she stared at the War Office stamp. Her lips were quivering. Was that because she imagined the same terrible news as Clara? She thought of Will, and how he had told her there was nothing worse than not knowing the truth. She thought of how Father had told her to be brave. She had been brave. She had found Will in the cellars, and confronted the Earl. Despite all this, Clara’s hands still shook as she slid a finger into the back of the envelope and slit it open. She pulled the single sheet of paper out. The typeface was blurry and swam in front of her eyes like tadpoles in a pool.

  …Private Christopher Millar has been transferred to the Red Cross auxiliary hospital in Plymouth… cautiously optimistic that with extensive rehabilitation he will make a full recovery…

  Clara blinked. Christopher wasn’t fatally wounded? He would recover?

  Clara’s aunt prised the letter from her fingers. “We were so sorry to hear that your brother was injured.”

  Clara blinked again. “You knew?”

  Her aunt nodded. “The War Office sent an earlier telegram to your parents. It wasn’t as optimistic as this, and it asked them to come to Devon immediately. There had been a mix-up at the casualty clearing station in Rouen. Christopher was taken to Plymouth, rather than back to your home in Kent.”

  “So…Father did not go to Devon to convalesce?” Clara said slowly. Everything she thought had been true was being undone in her head.

  “No,” said Clara’s aunt. “Although I think the sea air has done him the world of good. Your mother says his lungs are finally improving. You will be able to go home in a few days.”

  Will had been right. If she had been able to face her fears earlier and open the letter, she would not have wasted all this time worrying and wondering.

  Aunt Elizabeth reached across and placed a hand on Clara’s knee. “Your mother said you took it very badly when your father had gas poisoning. That it gave you terrible nightmares. They thought it best you stay with us until the news was more…certain.”

  Nightmares. But those had been because of her father’s stories. Or had they? Father had started telling her the bedtime stories when he had returned from France, on the nights neither of them could sleep. Had he been telling her about mountain-crossing fearless explorers to make her feel braver, more able to deal with the war and all of its terribleness? She sucked in a breath and let these new thoughts settle until they felt more at home in her head.

  But even though most of the mysteries had been solved, the biggest one remained.

  “But what about Will and the thefts?” Clara asked quietly.

  Her uncle shook his head. “I’ll hear no more talk of this now. We have proof that Will stole the fruit, Clara. I’m afraid that’s all there is to it. The police will shortly be arriving to take him into town. They will charge him with theft. I’m afraid things are looking very bad for that boy indeed.”

  It was early evening, the sky a quiet shade of damson. Leaves from the apple and pear trees coated the grass in a crisp, russet carpet. A cacophony of birds chirped a soulful tune, saying goodbye to another day. Clara sat with her back to a tree trunk, closed her eyes and thought of Will. She had felt his sorrow when burying his father’s things; the joy in his eyes when he was with the pineapples; the delight and care he took in his drawings and his hope for a better life. There had to be a way of stopping the police from charging him, for she knew deep in her bones that he truly was innocent. She needed to be a detective like the Earl had said, and find some firm evidence that proved Robert was the thief.

  Something small and light plopped onto her apron. A little green caterpillar. It wriggled on its back, its legs waving feebly in the air. Clara gently rolled it over and held out a finger. “Hello, you,” she said. The caterpillar cautiously clambered aboard and inched towards her wrist.

  Clara heard the front door of The Bothy open. Robert came out and sat on the front step. He leaned against the brick wall, tipped his head back and closed his eyes. His hands gripped his knees tightly. He had seemed so nice when she had first arrived, with his talk of visiting faraway places where the pineapples were grown. She had thought he had been protecting Will by hiding him in the boiler house, when instead his intentions had been cruel. Anger curled under her skin.

  The caterpillar’s feet tickled Clara’s arm. It would be finding a place to build its chrysalis soon, to turn into something else entirely and fly away. Clara blinked. Something clicked in her head, like a key being turned. Her thoughts gathered speed, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.

  The Bothy was quiet, the gardeners up at the Big House having tea. Will had said Robert shared a room on the ground floor with some of the other under-gardeners, and this was where she found herself. She crept along the hall, pulled on a door latch and peered inside. Three beds, with a small table next to each. A deep sickness welled in the pit of her stomach. If she was right, this would change everything for Will – and for Robert.

  She walked swiftly to the first table. On top lay a gardening manual, a notebook and a pencil. It was the same style of notebook Will had – blue with a bound edge. She flicked through it. The book belonged to a man called George and contained lists of gardening jobs.

  She turned to the next table. The top of this one was clear. She opened the small drawer beneath it and felt around inside. It was empty. She frowned. Whoever slept in that bed had no personal possessions. Unless they did, but they wanted to hide them. Clara turned to the bed and lifted the corner of the mattress. The bed frame creaked loudly. She paused and glanced at the door. The hallway was still quiet.

  There was nothing under the bed. She thought of the seam of her own mattress, which had come undone so readily when she had looked for a secret hiding place. She bent
down and smoothed her hand around the outside. Nothing.

  Frustration billowed through her. It had to be in here somewhere. She cast her eyes around the room. There, on the back of the door – Robert’s gardening jacket with its distinctive mustard yellow lining. Hanging in plain sight.

  Clara took it down from the hook and felt inside the pockets. They were empty. She patted the jacket down. There was a rustle. Something was hidden in the lining. She reached into the right pocket again and turned it inside out. There was a small hole which had been roughly sewn up, as if it had been mended and undone several times. Clara’s jaw tightened.

  She pulled the stitching apart and gingerly felt inside. Papers. She gave them a tug and they slipped out. She turned the papers over in her hand, the meaning of them slowly dawning on her. She remembered what the Earl had said. This was good evidence, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more. She glanced out of the window. The sky was darkening – the gardeners would be returning from the Big House soon. A plan was bubbling; a way to catch Robert and make him confess to his crimes. She just hoped it would work out, for Will’s future depended on it.

  Clara watched the bats swooping in the early-evening dark as she approached the stables. The days and nights were cooling as October marched towards the chill of winter. The bats would be hibernating soon, tucking themselves away from the cold in barns and attics. Like the bats, Clara knew her time at Gardener’s Cottage was speeding towards an end, and to a new beginning of sorts, back home with her family and friends. But she could not and would not go until she had done everything in her power to help Will. He had no one else in the world to look out for him now – no mother or father to welcome him home at the end of the day, no brother to rely on when times were tough, no bed of his own to sleep in at night.

  Robert’s papers burned a hole in her pocket as she pulled on the stable door. The cart loaded with vegetables was locked inside. Somehow, this wasn’t very surprising. She saw a figure approaching.

  “Clara,” Robert said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  Clara summoned all her courage; she imagined drawing it up from a well, buckets and buckets of it. She pulled her shoulders back. “Mr Gilbert asked me to go with you tonight to take the vegetables to the hospital.”

  Robert frowned. “Really? But he told me to take them tomorrow.”

  “There’s an emergency – a food shortage,” Clara said lightly.

  Robert’s brow furrowed.

  “I overheard him telling Mrs Gilbert what a hard worker you are. You’re his favourite of all the under-gardeners. I think he may even pay you a little extra this week.”

  Robert’s good eye was as shiny as a spoon. “Really?”

  Clara nodded, trying to quell her rising nausea at telling such a lie.

  Clara had not been along the country lanes at night before. Robert steered the horse deftly through the dark, like he had done this journey many times. Clara wondered exactly how many times, as she buried her hands under the rug covering their knees. Rage tingled in the tips of her fingers. The rage translated into words she could not keep from rising in her throat. “Have you seen Will?” she asked.

  Kitty’s hooves clip-clopped on the road. The wind whistled around their heads, flicking strands of Clara’s hair into her eyes.

  “No,” Robert said in a curt voice. “He’s been taken into town, to the police station.”

  Clara thought of her own brother – how terrified she had been of him being injured, how she had been powerless to support him and couldn’t bear to think of him at all for a long time. “You should help your brother. He needs you.”

  “Things are…complicated,” Robert said in a thin voice, as the sequin-like lights of the town pushed through the inky blackness.

  “Why?” Clara persisted. But Robert did not respond, just stared straight ahead. More words fizzed in her throat – accusing words. She squashed them down. She must not confront Robert yet, not until she had firm proof that he had been taking the fruit.

  Smoke curled from the chimneys of the hospital into the dark. A man and a lady walked past with a small dog, out for an early-evening stroll. The dog barked as Robert drew back on the reins and brought Kitty to a slow stop.

  Clara hopped down from the cart and stroked Kitty’s flank. She was warm, breath steaming from her nose. She nodded her head, as if glad to have arrived. Clara tied Kitty to a lamp post and helped Robert unload the wooden crates of vegetables, stacking them on the roadside. As Robert disappeared through the hospital entrance carrying two of the crates, Clara lifted the corner of a cloth covering a crate still in the back of the cart. Potatoes and carrots. In another were tightly packed beetroot and leeks. Her fingers moved quickly and lightly across the crates, lifting the cloths and making a mental note of the contents. There were no pineapples. No figs or peaches. Clara sighed, picked up one of the smaller crates and walked to the hospital entrance. Maybe she had been wrong after all.

  A nurse in a white uniform came through the door just as Clara was wondering how to open it and hold the crate at the same time. She gave Clara a bright smile. “Food delivery?”

  Clara nodded and rushed past her down the corridor, the smell of disinfectant sticking in her throat. Robert walked past her in the opposite direction, two empty crates from the previous delivery in his arms. He gave her a quick nod.

  In the kitchen stores a lady was unloading the boxes Robert had delivered. “Is this the last of them?” she asked.

  “I think there are a few more,” said Clara, putting her crate down. Where was Robert? She listened for the echo of his heavy boots in the corridor, but it was quiet.

  Clara half-ran back to the hospital entrance. She flung open the doors and stood on the pavement. Kitty was still standing contentedly, her nose in a bag of hay. Her tail flicked. The last of the boxes were standing on the pavement, waiting to be brought inside. Where had Robert gone?

  Clara peered down the street to her left – empty. She swung to the right – also empty. Standing quietly, she let the sounds and sights of the town settling down for the night fill up her senses. The clunk of a window being shut, and the swish of curtains being pulled. A drifting smell of something sweet, like milky cocoa. mother standing in an open doorway, a swaddled but fretful baby wriggling in her arms. Then…to her right, on the opposite side of the road in the shadows, she noticed a figure. Clara peered into the darkness. Could it be him? She began to run down the long street, her feet light and quiet on the paving slabs. The figure sank into the gloom and reappeared under a pool of light from a street lamp. His head was bent forwards and he was carrying a parcel. Robert!

  Clara crossed the street and picked up her pace, her eyes never leaving his back. Where was he going?

  Boom. The noise was like a loud thunderclap.

  Clara pressed on. A sudden storm was the last thing she needed – if the pavements were slick with rain and the air misty, she might lose sight of Robert altogether.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. The glass in the windows of the terraced house Clara was passing rattled and shook.

  Her feet came to a sudden halt. A strange mechanical whirring noise was coming from the sky. A couple of front doors opened, pale faces peering out into the night. How very odd, Clara thought, as the people clapped hands to their mouths (which were open so wide it was a wonder their faces didn’t crack apart).

  There came the sound of slapping feet on the pavement running towards her.

  “Zeppelin,” a boy said in a shrill voice as his blurry body ran past. “Zeppelin attack! Take shelter.”

  Doors were opening. People were leaving their houses, running down the street towards the hospital, in the direction Clara had come from. A father carried a small girl in a nightdress, whose head was tipped towards the sky. “I see it, Papa. It’s there, look!”

  Clara slowly looked up, in the direction of the noisy whirring. A long, silver cigar-shaped balloon loomed in the sky ahead.

  The hair at the nape of her nec
k lifted and she swallowed a scream, her feet rooted to the spot.

  Clara’s heart squashed in her chest. But…they were in Suffolk. Zeppelins didn’t come this far north. The threat was in London, in the big cities. Not in small towns in the east of England. Then she remembered what she had overheard at the Big House – how a Zeppelin had drifted in from the Norfolk coast – and the report Mr Gilbert had read in the newspaper. Her hands felt clammy and her stomach churned.

  A man pushing a cart jolted into Clara as she stood frozen on the pavement. A small dog and a squawking parrot in a cage were jostled from side to side as he ran. People were taking their precious things and fleeing for their lives. She must follow them – now. Her limbs began to unfreeze into a strange shakiness that made her teeth chatter in her skull.

  Clara heard the ringing of a fire bell from behind her and the rumble of the cartwheels on the road. The bell unfroze her brain. Robert. His eyes were fixed to the sky as hers had been, but he wasn’t standing still, he was running straight into the path of the huge German flying machine.

  “Robert!” she yelled. Her voice was small, eaten up by the clamour of the fire bell, the sound of panicked voices and crying children. Why had he not turned back? Did she have enough time to run after him and grab him? Forcing herself forwards, Clara began to pelt down the pavement towards him.

  Robert took a right turn, into a narrow cobbled street.

  The Zeppelin rumbled overhead.

  “Robert!” Clara shouted again. Her voice was croaky, whipped away by the wind. He was knocking on a red door. The parcel he had been carrying was at his feet. He launched himself at the door with both hands, hammering and banging.

  “Robert,” Clara yelled again.

  He turned, his surprised eyes meeting hers.