She froze. She felt her insides turn over.
The table just inside the big front doors usually held a china vase in the shape of a swan, filled with flowers. Now, the vase lay smashed in a puddle of water, the flowers scattered across the floor. And in its place — Stella took two steps closer.
It was a hand. It stood upright on its wrist in a silver stand. It was black and twisted with long, hornlike nails. At the tip of each finger a pale candle flame burned steadily. Tendrils of thin black smoke snaked upwards, curling into the air.
She felt the back of her neck prickle. This must be the hand of glory the thieves had talked about. It had sounded extremely sinister and it certainly looked revolting. Somehow, it was making everyone stay asleep. It must be the smoke. It was filling the air with a thick, drowsy haze.
She hugged the Atlas and Mr Filbert’s package tightly and picked her way carefully closer. She could feel her heart beating in her ears.
She blew hard at the candle flames. They didn’t flicker. She licked her fingertips, as she had seen Ada do hundreds of times to snuff out a candle, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch the horrible thing. She clamped her teeth together, lifted the Atlas and swatted the hand off the table. It toppled into the puddle. The fingers writhed and twisted and the five pale flames spat and hissed.
There was a crash from upstairs. Voices and footsteps approached. At any moment, she would be discovered.
Desperately, Stella stamped on the squirming, sputtering hand. It wriggled under her bare foot. She felt the scorching flames and the scratching, horrible fingernails. It stung. She yelped. Blood oozed into the puddle underfoot, making red, watery trails.
One of the flames sizzled and went out.
Footsteps started down the staircase.
Stella stamped one more time on the hand. It clawed at her foot. Another flame went out with a hiss. She kicked at it and looked around, close to panic, for somewhere to hide. Beside the front door was the enormous, carved mahogany umbrella stand. She scrambled over to it, crawled in behind the bristling jungle of walking sticks and umbrellas and crouched down, her heart thumping.
Through a gap between a large black umbrella and an ebony walking stick, she could just see the hand lying in the puddle, sputtering and writhing, the three remaining pale flames making wiggly reflections in the water.
Several masked men came into the entrance hall from the bath house and down the main staircase.
With a horrible jolt in her stomach, Stella saw the trail of slightly bloody, wet footprints that she had left behind her. They led like a line of arrows across the marble floor, pointing right to where she was hiding.
Stella watched the masked men. She could hear her heart beating. It would only be a few moments and they would see the footprints, and they would find her. She clutched the Atlas and Mr Filbert’s package, ready to run.
‘Strike anything?’ one of the men asked.
‘Nothin’ at all. Just flash coves kipping.’
‘Flipping hell!’ He pointed at the hand of glory where it lay in the puddle, sputtering.
‘Go on, Charlie, snabble it. It’s going out.’
‘I ain’t touching it. You nab it.’
‘Not on your life. That thing ain’t natural.’
‘That’s blood there.’
‘Look.’ One of the men pointed to the trail of footprints.
‘Little niggle footsteps. It’s the nipper.’
‘She’s hid right in there.’
They moved towards the umbrella stand. Stella crouched, frozen with fear, as they spread out and surrounded her.
‘I told you I seen a nipper!’ Charlie rubbed his big hands together. ‘Come on out, little girl. We won’t hurt you.’ The others laughed. He thrust his hand in behind the umbrellas and walking sticks. His big sausage fingers clutched the air just above Stella’s head, groped around and connected with her cheek.
She bit his hand as hard as she could. It tasted of sweat and dirt. He yelled and the hand disappeared.
‘Grab one of them there sticks, Charlie. Winkle her out.’
There was a rattle, and a walking stick poked in behind the umbrellas and jabbed her ribs. ‘Out you come, brat.’ The stick poked her again. She yelped.
‘Gentlemen.’ It was the Professor. Stella couldn’t see him, but she recognised his quiet voice. ‘What is happening?’
The men stopped laughing. ‘We found the nipper. I mean, the child, Professor. She’s hidden herself here.’
Between an ivory umbrella handle in the shape of a parrot’s head and a leather shooting stick, Stella caught a glimpse of the Professor. He was standing some distance away, in the doorway of the sunroom. He had one hand on the shoulder of the thin, pale boy.
He saw the hand of glory in the puddle.
‘Remove that from the water immediately,’ he ordered, his face stiff and angry. And then he said, more urgently, ‘Immediately! Is that blood? It is extinguishing the flames. Quickly!’
The masked men hesitated. Two more flames sizzled and died. The Professor cursed, strode quickly across the entrance hall and reached down for the hand. As his fingers touched it, the last flame hissed, sputtered and went out.
He scooped it up. ‘Get that child. Now.’ He placed the hand upright on the table and felt in his pockets for matches. He lit one and held the flame to the tip of a twisted finger. The match flickered out. He cursed under his breath and tried again.
The masked men began to pull walking sticks and umbrellas from the stand and throw them onto the floor. But already the air was lighter and clearer and the hotel was stirring. Confused voices came from somewhere nearby. At the desk, Mr Blenkinsop grunted, coughed and woke up. He looked around the entrance hall in bewilderment.
‘Gentlemen?’ He wiped a hand over his face and got to his feet. ‘What . . . what is happening?’
The Professor whipped the unlit hand off the table, wrapped it in his handkerchief and pushed it into an inner pocket of his coat. He said in a low, angry voice, ‘You’ve bungled this, you imbeciles. Get that child. Quickly.’
The umbrella stand began to rock. Hands clutched at Stella. She shrank away from them. One of the men pulled her arm.
A maid appeared from the back stairs, her hair dishevelled. ‘Mr Blenkinsop, Mr Blenkinsop!’
‘What? What?’ General Carruthers came stumping down the stairs, waving his stick. ‘Robbers! Dacoits! Thuggees! After them!’
More residents and servants appeared on the landing.
The Professor said, ‘Too late. Go!’ His face was tight with fury. The masked men recoiled from him, turned and ran. They all piled out the front door and escaped away into the dark. The Professor gripped the thin boy’s shoulder to stop him from following them.
The hotel was awake. Heads poked out over the banisters. Residents and servants in dressing gowns and nightcaps were coming down the staircase. Colonel Fforbes appeared, his magnificent moustache confined in a complicated-looking hairnet.
‘Thieves!’ shouted the Professor. ‘A gang of thieves in the hotel!’
‘But, sir . . .’ Mr Blenkinsop sounded confused. ‘You were with them . . . What were you . . .?’
One of the maids screamed and fainted dramatically and the others clustered around. Lady Clottington’s nasty little dog, Sir Oswald, shot down the staircase growling ferociously and bit Mr Blenkinsop’s ankle. He shrieked. Lady Clottington’s maid, her hair in rag curlers, tried to pull the dog off. Sir Oswald let go of Mr Blenkinsop’s ankle and snapped at her hand instead. She squealed. General Carruthers, Colonel Fforbes and several of the male servants stood in the open doorway, shouting into the darkness outside.
Unseen in the confusion, Stella crawled out from the umbrella stand and tiptoed around the bustling crowd, staying close to the wall, keeping as far from the Professor as she could. She hugged the Atlas and Mr Filbert’s package to her chest.
The Professor watched her. Their eyes met for a second. He moved towards her, through
the milling people.
With an ear-splitting screech, Colonel Fforbes’s macaw, Wellington, flapped into the entrance hall with a flurry of ancient, moth-eaten feathers. Two of the servants ran to catch him as he flew past and banged their heads together. The fainting maid awoke for a moment, shrieked and fainted again.
Stella darted between the maids, who were clustered around, gasping and giggling, to the manager’s desk. She clutched at Mr Blenkinsop’s arm, shook it to get his attention, and when he bent down to her, she whispered urgently, ‘In the conservatory. Mr Filbert. He needs help. He’s been hurt.’
‘In the conservatory?’ He looked bewildered.
She nodded and started to say more. But the Professor was approaching, his long fingers reaching towards her, clutching the air.
Mr Blenkinsop turned to him. ‘Sir?’ he said.
The Professor hesitated.
Breathless, Stella turned away, ducked between the maids again and scrambled up the stairs as fast as she could. Residents and servants dashed here and there. Stella glimpsed Lady Ogilvy and her maid peering out of a room on the second floor. Lady Ogilvy was hardly recognisable in her lace nightcap, and without her wig and teeth.
Stella ran, panting, all the way up to the third floor.
Nobody had followed her.
It was much quieter here at the top of the hotel. The commotion downstairs was just an echo of distant voices. The passageway was deserted. Stella hurried along to the Aunts’ parlour door. She pressed her ear against it and then opened it, slipped through and locked the door behind her.
The Aunts were still sleeping. She could hear snoring whines from Aunt Temperance, grunts from Aunt Condolence and deep thundering from Aunt Deliverance.
She crept across the parlour to Aunt Condolence and Aunt Temperance’s room, opened the door and tiptoed between the sleeping Aunts to her own bedroom. She was very relieved to find the key in the lock. She could not have managed to climb out the window and along the ledge again, she was too shaky and frightened. Silently, she opened the door, locked it behind her and collapsed onto her bed.
For a minute or two she listened. There was nothing to hear but snoring. Nothing disturbed the Aunts’ sleep. Nobody had followed her. She was safe.
She got up from her bed and poked the Atlas and Mr Filbert’s package under the mattress, pushing them in as far as she could reach. It wasn’t the best hiding place, but it would do for now, until she could return the package to Mr Filbert. She thought for a second, and then pushed in the door key as well. There would be trouble in the morning when Ada came to unlock the door and found the key gone, but that could not be helped.
She inspected her feet. They were filthy, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. She crawled in under the cold bedcovers. She still felt shaky. Her legs were aching and her feet hurt, her ribs were bruised and she was so tired. She curled up and pulled the eiderdown over her head.
It was a long time before she stopped shivering and fell asleep.
Stella woke from a frightening dream full of horrible, twisting, burning black hands, to hear whispering voices outside her bedroom. She turned over and sat up. Pale greyish morning sunshine glanced in through the window. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. She climbed out of bed, tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against it. It was Ada and some of the hotel servants, in the Aunts’ bedroom.
‘Dead!’
‘No!’
‘They found him just lying there. Flat out like a cold kipper!’
‘Saints preserve us!’
Stella pressed her hand to her mouth. Dead? Who was dead?
The door handle rattled, making her jump. Ada’s voice said, ‘Where is that dratted key?’
Stella darted back to her bed and reached underneath the mattress for the key. She ran silently over and pushed it under the door. Then she scrambled back into bed, pulled the eiderdown up to her chin and closed her eyes.
The door handle rattled again. ‘Get that key from the other door, will you, Polly? They’re all the same.’
‘There it is, Ada,’ said one of the housemaids. ‘It’s fallen out.’
The key turned in the lock and Ada came into the room. ‘Morning, Miss.’
Stella opened her eyes and yawned. She hoped it was convincing. ‘Good morning, Ada.’
She could hear the housemaids still whispering just outside the door.
‘Murder! Thieves? Police? I ask you!’
‘Ohh, I know!’
‘What’s happened, Ada?’ Stella asked, trying to sound as if she had been sleeping all night and knew nothing at all about anything.
Ada closed the door firmly behind her, marched across to the window, drew the curtains back and looped the tassels in place. ‘Nothing to concern yourself with, Miss,’ she said. She opened the wardrobe and rummaged through Stella’s clothes.
‘But . . .’
‘Up you get, Miss.’ Ada laid a chemise, stays, stockings, a petticoat, another petticoat, a dress with grey and blue stripes, and a pinafore over the back of the chair. ‘Come on. I’ve no time to waste this morning.’
Polly, one of the younger housemaids, came in with the brass can of hot water and filled the jug. She jerked her head and said, ‘She’s calling for you, Ada.’
Aunt Deliverance’s bell jangled. Ada pointed to Stella and said, ‘Will you get her up and dressed, Polly? Be a love. I’m run off my feet this morning,’ and to Stella, over her shoulder as she left the room, she said, ‘A proper wash, Miss, not just a lick and a promise, if you know what’s good for you.’
Stella climbed out of bed.
Polly gave a little shriek. ‘Miss! Look at your nightgown!’
Stella looked down. There was grime all down the front of her nightgown and blood spots on the hem. Her legs and feet were streaked with dirt.
Polly giggled and twitched the nightgown off over her head. She held up the filthy garment. ‘I’ve never seen the like. All over with muck. What have you been up to, Miss?’
‘Nothing, Polly.’
Polly giggled. ‘I should tell Ada about this, Miss.’
‘Please don’t, Polly,’ said Stella, shivering in her vest and drawers. But she knew Polly would not get her into trouble. Polly was kind. She had an open, smiling face and she would sometimes tell Stella gossip from the servants’ hall, and scandalous stories from the magazines she loved to read, and old fairy tales of drowned villages out in the marsh and sea monsters and mermaids.
Polly shook her head and bundled up the nightgown. ‘You’re safe with me, Miss. I won’t land you in strife. Nobody will notice a nightgown, not with everything going on this morning. I’ll sneak it into the laundry.’ She laid the oilcloth over the carpet and handed Stella the sponge from the dressing table. Stella dipped the sponge in the water, bent down and started to wipe the dirt off her legs and feet.
‘What’s happening, Polly?’ she asked.
‘I shouldn’t tell you, Miss,’ said Polly, giggling again.
‘Oh, go on, Polly.’
Polly looked over at the door, and then said in a low voice, ‘Well, Miss. Thieves got into the hotel last night.’
‘Ohh!’ Stella tried to sound surprised.
‘And after, they found a gentleman lying dead! And ever so many things smashed to pieces!’
‘Dead? Who?’
‘It was that foreign gentleman, Mr Filbert. He was lying in the conservatory. Dead as a doormat. And all them flowerpots busted to bits around him.’
Mr Filbert dead! Stella dropped the sponge and pressed her hand to her mouth.
‘Are you all right, Miss? You’ve gone ever so pale.’
Stella heard her voice say, ‘Yes,’ and she watched her hand reach down and pick up the sponge, but inside she felt hollow. He had been alive. She had spoken to him. And now he was dead.
‘It’s horrible, isn’t it, Miss? Right here in the hotel. Everything’s arsey versey this morning. Half the servants’ hall are plain hysterical.’ Polly giggled again. ‘Peo
ple are talking about giving notice. We’ll all be murdered in our beds, they say.’ Polly sounded as if she welcomed the idea. ‘It’s just like in that Varney the Vampyre, or The Feast of Blood.’
Stella washed and dried her face and hands and started to get dressed. She felt dazed. Could she have done something to save Mr Filbert? She pulled on her chemise, stays and stockings.
‘That new gentleman, the tall one? Already gone. Didn’t stay the night.’ Polly helped with the stays and chemise and the petticoats, connecting the buttons and loops and tying the tapes. She bunched up the dress and dropped it over Stella’s head.
The Professor, thought Stella. She was relieved he had gone away. When her head emerged from the muffling folds of stiff fabric, she said, ‘He’s gone?’
Polly smoothed out the skirt and started fastening the long row of tiny buttons down the back of the dress. ‘Something odd about that gentleman, if you ask me. That boy of his looked frightened of his own shadow, poor little chap.’ She finished buttoning the dress and shook out the pinafore. ‘The police are coming,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps they’ll make an arrest. Perhaps they’ll arrest Mr Blenkinsop.’ She giggled. ‘They’ve left poor Mr Filbert lying right there in the conservatory. Nothing is to be touched. The door locked, and James watching it. Ready for the detectives. For clues, Miss,’ Polly said with some relish. She pushed Stella’s arms into the pinafore and tied the tapes. ‘Clues for the detectives. Like in The Haunted Churchyard, or the Mystery of the Manchurian Dwarf.’
She brushed Stella’s hair. ‘Nice gentleman, that Mr Filbert. Proper old-fashioned. Strange, though. He paid for his room with golden guineas. And there were more in his luggage. Two hundred years old, Mr Fortescue says, and covered with earth. Like they’d been dug up. But, gold is gold, he says.’ She tied Stella’s hair back with a ribbon and said, ‘That’s you done, Miss. It’s past breakfast time. Everything’s late this morning. I’ve got to get on.’
‘Thank you, Polly,’ said Stella. She sat down to pull on her slippers. It was hard to believe that Mr Filbert was dead.
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