The Aunts snored rhythmically, and the clock in the parlour struck two.
Stella heard a faint clattering noise from the terrace outside. She climbed out of bed again, tiptoed over to the window and leaned out.
She thought something moved, but she couldn’t be sure, and although she watched for a long time, nothing else stirred.
At last, frozen right through, she crept back to bed. She blew out the candle and lay there shivering, curled up tight, clutching Mr Filbert’s bottle and the Atlas, and eventually she fell asleep.
The following morning after breakfast, Stella had two hours of extremely tedious deportment practice.
Aunt Temperance clapped her hands and said, ‘Head up. Eyes down. Shoulders back,’ as Stella walked slowly around and around the parlour with French Conversation for Young Ladies balanced on top of her head. ‘Small steps. Small steps. Now stop. Curtsy.’
Stella stopped and made a bob, and the book slid off and hit the floor with a bang. She bent, picked it up and replaced it on her head.
‘When I was a girl, we did this with a wine glass of milk on our heads,’ said Aunt Temperance. ‘And we never spilled a drop.’
Stella nodded. The book fell off.
‘You’re not concentrating, child.’
It was true. Stella wasn’t concentrating on balancing the book. She had too many other things to think about. Absentmindedly, she picked it up and put it back on her head. There was so much she didn’t know. She wished she could talk to Ben again.
She thought about Mr Filbert. The Professor had stabbed him, and he had been lying dead on the floor of the conservatory. But the police detectives had found only a scarecrow made of twisted sticks. What did that mean? Had someone replaced Mr Filbert’s dead body with the scarecrow for some reason? Or — Stella stopped in her tracks as she had another thought.
Bang. The book slid off the front of her head and hit the floor again. Aunt Temperance made annoyed clicking noises with her tongue. ‘Back straight. Head up. Small steps. Concentrate, child.’
Stella bent and picked up the book.
Could the Professor have somehow changed Mr Filbert into sticks? Using magic? It seemed very unlikely. Or perhaps — if Ben could be related to seals (which also seemed very unlikely), then Mr Filbert might be related to — what? Wicker baskets? Bird nests?
‘Aunt Temperance?’
‘What is it?’
‘Can — I mean, can a person be turned into sticks? Into a scarecrow?’
Aunt Temperance gave a gasp. ‘Quiet, child.’
‘Have you heard of the Grimpen —’
‘Be quiet!’
‘But —’
‘Quiet! Don’t ask such outrageous questions.’ Aunt Temperance’s rolling eye circled wildly. ‘We never speak of such things. Never. Curiosity is a sign of a vulgar mind. Pay attention to your deportment.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Head up, shoulders back, small steps.’
Stella sighed and balanced French Conversation for Young Ladies on top of her head again.
‘Back straight, eyes down,’ instructed Aunt Temperance. ‘Fifty times around the room.’ She stalked to the door. ‘When I return from the bath house, I expect to see some improvement.’
She left the parlour and Stella immediately stopped walking and stood, staring into space, thinking. Meeting with Ben again would be difficult to arrange. She would have to leave that to chance. But she could find out more about Mr Filbert. Who was he? Where had he come from?
After a moment, she took the book from her head and went along to her bedroom and extracted the key from the door. She had overheard Ada say that the bedroom keys were all the same. Why hadn’t she discovered this before? She compared her bedroom key to the one from Aunt Temperance and Aunt Condolence’s room. They were identical.
She checked the bathroom, Aunt Deliverance’s bedroom and drawing room, and Ada’s tiny room. The keys were all the same. Which key would be least likely to be missed? She thought for a second, and then went and tucked Ada’s bedroom key under her mattress and put the other keys back into their keyholes.
Now, she would be able to escape easily from her room, without having to make the frightening climb out of the window and along the ledge. Tonight, she would see if she could find out more about Mr Filbert. She knew where his room was on the second floor of the hotel. She would go and look through his things. Perhaps she would find a clue to his identity. Perhaps she would discover what his little bottle contained and what she should do with it. Smiling to herself, she put French Conversation for Young Ladies back on top of her head and started circling the parlour again.
It rained steadily all morning. Grey clouds lay sluggishly on the roof of the hotel, and water splashed and dripped from gutters and spouting. Stella sat at the parlour table, sewing and listening to the raindrops hitting the window. She had been sewing the sampler since she was nine years old. She had sewn two alphabets in tiny stitches, and a row of numbers, and a depressing verse:
Let me Improve the Hours I have,
Before the Day of Grace is Fled,
There’s no Repentance in the Grave,
Nor Pardons Offered to the Dead.
It was difficult to read because Aunt Condolence had made Stella unpick it and sew it repeatedly, and the linen was grimy and wrinkled.
Around the alphabets and the verse, and right around the edges of the sampler, Stella had sewn a border of dozens of tiny flowers: violets (which meant modesty), sweet briar (which meant simplicity) and daisies (which meant patience). Stella would have liked to include some interesting jungle flowers as well, but there were no jungle flowers in Aunt Condolence’s little book The Language of Flowers, and so they might have meant anything. Most probably something vulgar, Aunt Condolence said. Sewing the flowers had taken months and months.
Now Stella was slowly filling in the spaces between the flowers with little pictures. She had sewn a picture of a soldier in India being eaten up by an angry-looking tiger and an exciting scene of a sailing ship being attacked by a sea monster. Aunt Condolence had not approved of either of these, and so the next picture was a dull man riding a dull horse along a dull road. The man’s coat was made of tiny stitches of red silk. The thread kept knotting itself and tangling around the needle. Stella sighed and jabbed the needle through the linen again. It went into her finger and she squeaked.
‘Quiet, child,’ said Aunt Condolence from the other side of the parlour, without looking up.
Stella sucked her finger quietly and eyed Aunt Condolence. She was writing a letter. Her Particular Patent Corset creaked as she reached over and dipped her pen into the ink.
Stealthily, Stella pushed the sampler to one side and took a small piece of linen from her sewing box. She folded it in half and started sewing close-together stitches around the sides to make a little pocket.
When she had finished, she sewed on a loop and a button, so it would close properly. It would be just big enough to hold Mr Filbert’s package. She sewed both ends of a length of hair ribbon to the pocket. This way, she could wear it around her neck, hidden under her clothes. It was the safest hiding place she could think of.
She attached the ribbon as firmly as she could. When it was quite finished, she poked the pocket into the leg of her drawers and picked up the sampler again. Aunt Condolence had not looked up from her letter. Stella smiled to herself as she stabbed the needle into the linen and made another red silk stitch into the dull horseman’s coat.
After luncheon (Prince of Wales’s Soup, Boiled Turbot and Stewed Cabbage, Haricot Mutton, Military Pudding with Sago Sauce), Aunt Deliverance announced that the rain was holding off, and so they set out for their promenade along the Front.
A cold, damp wind was blowing and Ada tucked extra blankets and shawls around Aunt Deliverance until she looked like a roly-poly pudding. Stella walked behind Ada and the Aunts, Mr Filbert’s little package safe in its pocket around her neck, hidden under her clothes.
As they left the hotel driv
e and turned into the street, a furtive-looking man leaning against a lamppost whistled loudly. He had pale whiskers, a tall hat and a heliotrope waistcoat with a pattern of tulips. For a moment, his gaze met Stella’s, and then he turned his back and walked quickly away.
Stella blinked. Something about the man was familiar. But she couldn’t think where she had seen him before.
They headed down the hill and out along the Front. The few people they passed had their heads down and walked briskly. Stella had to skip every few steps to keep up with Ada and the Aunts.
Seagulls rode the wind, swooping and crying. The flags on the pier fluttered, dead leaves and sweet wrappers swirled around.
All along the Front, Stella looked for Ben, but there was no sign of him, nor of the Professor. The pier was almost deserted. White-capped waves crashed onto the shingle. Beyond the pier, fishermen were pulling their boats further up the beach.
They reached the shipwreck memorial. Ada stopped in the shelter of the lighthouse and tucked in Aunt Deliverance’s blankets and shawls. Then she hauled the Bath chair around and they headed back into the strengthening, icy wind. Dark grey clouds were building up out to sea. A jagged flash of lightning and a crack of thunder made Stella jump. She hugged her arms around herself as she trotted along behind Ada and the Aunts, splashing through puddles.
They reached the hotel just as the rain started. Mr Blenkinsop and one of the footmen rushed out into the downpour to help Ada heave Aunt Deliverance and the Bath chair up the stairs to the front door.
They rode up to the top floor on the Vertical Omnibus. As usual, the lurching ascent made Aunt Deliverance set her mouth in a thin line, Aunt Temperance shut her eyes tightly, and Aunt Condolence clutch her middle and make tiny moaning noises. Stella always enjoyed the ride. It was far more agreeable than climbing the stairs. She liked the clanking, grinding noise and the feeling it gave her, as if her insides were being left behind down below, while the rest of her rose up into the air.
‘Third floor, Ma’am, if you please.’ James pulled the brake lever. Steam hissed and the Vertical Omnibus jerked to a stop. He opened the panelled door and the curly metal gate, helping Ada manoeuvre the Bath chair out and along the passageway to the Aunts’ rooms.
The Aunts’ door was ajar. Ada muttered something under her breath. She reached out and pushed the door open. The lock hung, splintered and broken.
Ada took two steps into the Aunts’ parlour, stopped dead and clutched at her throat. ‘Lawks a bleedin’ mercy!’ she shrieked. ‘Thieves!’
Stella followed Ada and the Aunts into the parlour. The room was in disarray. Furniture was overturned, ornaments were broken, torn pianoforte music and trampled flowers were littered everywhere.
‘Help! Thieves!’ shrieked Ada, rushing out to the hallway.
Aunt Temperance made a series of high-pitched squawks and Aunt Condolence clutched her chest, panting. She leaned against an upended chair. It toppled over and she tumbled to the floor.
‘Ada!’ bellowed Aunt Deliverance. ‘Ada!’
Stella picked her way carefully across the parlour to the Aunts’ bedroom. Aunt Temperance’s bed was pulled out from the wall, the wardrobe was open and clothes lay strewn in untidy heaps. Jewellery, brushes and ornaments were scattered across the floor.
Aunt Temperance’s glinting lizard brooch caught her eye. Beside it lay a photograph album, green velvet with brass corners. A few photographs had fallen out. Curious, Stella crouched down. The first picture she picked up was of an enormous house, bristling with turrets and chimneys, dark against a looming cloudy sky. In front of the house, a young Aunt Deliverance was mounted on a glossy horse, glaring. Stella turned the picture over. On the back was written, in faded ink: D, Wormwood Mire. Another photograph was of Aunt Temperance and Aunt Condolence, dressed in black, with pensive expressions, standing either side of a draped urn. On the back, in the same writing: T & C.
The third photograph was of a young woman in front of the same huge, dark house. Beside her was a perambulator containing two little children. They were all staring out of the picture with round, startled eyes. Stella turned the photograph over. She read, P, S & L, Wormwood Mire. She bit her finger. Her mother’s name had been Patience. P could be for Patience. And S for Stella. Could she be one of the babies in the photograph? But then, who —
Footsteps tramped into the parlour and Aunt Deliverance began to shout at someone. Stella jumped to her feet. She must not be found in the Aunts’ bedroom. She slipped quickly into her own room, clutching the photograph.
Here, the upheaval was even greater. Everything had been flung about. Her bed was upended, the bedclothes were torn, the mattress was slashed three or four times and feathers were spilling out. The washstand was overturned, the water jug smashed, the wardrobe doors were hanging open and her clothes were ripped and strewn across the floor.
Pieces of paper were scattered everywhere. Stella gasped. It was the Atlas. It had been torn apart.
With shaking hands, she collected up all the crumpled, wet pages and clutched them to her chest. The cover lay in a puddle under the washstand. She picked it up and bundled the pages back inside, looking desperately around for a safe hiding place.
The wardrobe had a cornice at the top, decorated with carved curlicues and bunches of grapes. Stella heaved the chair upright and shoved it across to the wardrobe. She climbed up. Standing on tiptoe, she reached as high as she could and pushed the bundled pages of the Atlas onto the top of the wardrobe, behind the cornice. It was safe for now, but it would certainly be found the next time the maids dusted. Tonight she must return it to the biscuit tin in the conservatory.
Her heart was thumping. This was the Professor’s doing, she was sure of it. He must have made Ben look in the ink, and Ben had seen her hide the silver bottle under her mattress. And so the Professor had sent his men to get it. They had known where to search. But they had been too late, the bottle was not there any more, it was safe in the little pocket around her neck.
A cold shiver ran down her back. She felt as if the Professor were looking over her shoulder. Almost as if he could hear her thoughts.
Twenty minutes later, still feeling shaken, Stella stood and watched the raindrops racing down the parlour window as the hotel servants put everything back in order, the Aunts took tea and Mr Fortescue, the owner of the hotel, was shouted at by Aunt Deliverance.
He was making little jerking bows and rubbing his hands together and saying, ‘Yes, Madam. Of course, Madam,’ and, ‘I do apologise, Madam.’
‘This is scarcely the kind of thing one would expect,’ snapped Aunt Deliverance. ‘Thieves in the hotel. Again.’
‘Yes, Madam. Naturally, Madam. Most regrettable. Most.’
A carpenter was fixing the lock, and Ada and Polly were busy setting the furniture straight. Four of the hotel housemaids heaved Stella’s slashed mattress out through the parlour. Clumps of feathers escaped from its insides and drifted around the room.
Aunt Temperance made another squawking noise and put a hand to her throat.
Aunt Condolence gasped, ‘Heavens.’
Stella looked at the deep cuts in the mattress and shivered. What would the Professor do next? She pressed her hand against her chest, where Mr Filbert’s package was hidden. Would Ben tell the Professor where it was now? What should she do? She didn’t want to tell the Aunts that she had spoken to Ben. They would be furious. But she knew she should. The Professor was just too dangerous.
‘Aunt Deliverance —’
Aunt Deliverance stopped berating Mr Fortescue long enough to snap, ‘Quiet, child.’
‘Please, I —’
All three Aunts turned and frowned at Stella.
‘Do not interrupt, child,’ said Aunt Deliverance
‘Children should be seen and not heard,’ said Aunt Temperance.
‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Aunt Condolence. She pointed to the table. ‘Sit there. Be silent. Do your needlework.’
‘But —’
/> ‘Quiet!’ thundered Aunt Deliverance.
Stella opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Aunt Deliverance said, ‘Do not speak until you are spoken to. Apply yourself to your work.’
Stella picked up her sewing box from where it lay amongst the scattered contents of the writing desk and took it to the table, blinking back tears. She sat and started to untangle the silks, her fingers shaking.
The Aunts turned their furious glares back to Mr Fortescue. Aunt Deliverance demanded that the police detectives return from London. Mr Fortescue bowed and made agreeing noises.
Stella laid the silks in order and smoothed out the sampler. It was quite undamaged. She sighed, threaded a needle and miserably started to sew.
The Aunts would be no help. She was on her own.
That night, Stella sat on her unfamiliar new mattress, wrapped in her eiderdown, and put the pages of the Atlas back into order.
The Aunts had gone to bed and were snoring, but the servants were still working. Stella could hear Ada scrubbing ink out of the carpet in the parlour. It was too early to venture out into the hotel, to find out what she could about Mr Filbert and to hide the Atlas safely in the conservatory again.
In between the pages of the Atlas was the photograph of the woman and the two babies that had fallen from Aunt Temperance’s album. She picked it up and gazed at the three faces. They stared back at her, three pairs of round, startled eyes. The little children looked identical, two pale faces with strands of wispy hair escaping from their lace bonnets. Was it possible that she had been one of these babies? The woman in the photograph was small, and seemed somehow fragile and anxious. Her eyes were almost too large for her thin face. Could this be her mother? Stella turned it over and read, again, P, S & L, Wormwood Mire. If S was for Stella, and P was for Patience, her mother, then L had been — what — a sister, perhaps?
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