‘Me flippin’ leg.’
‘She’s bleedin’ got out the window and gone down a rope. There’s an iron jake down there.’
‘You have allowed her to escape.’ The quiet voice was furious.
‘I didn’t smoke that there little window, Professor.’
‘You’ve bungled again. Quickly. You, come with me. Bring that blanket. She will not slip through my hands again. You, get the others. And fetch the boy.’
There were scuffling noises, the door banged, the footsteps tramped away and the room was again in darkness. Stella lay still and counted slowly to ten. And then to twenty, just to be sure the men had gone.
She lifted the dustsheet and wriggled out from underneath the elephant’s trolley. Her legs were frozen and shaky. She crept around the goggling mask and tiptoed to the door. It was unlocked. Outside, a dusty passage, lined with doors and papered with playbills, stretched away into darkness. She slipped out of the room, closed the door behind her and crept along the passage. At the end, a winding, wooden staircase led down. She could hear the building creaking and the distant sounds of the sea. She followed another dark passageway around, past boxes and barrels and rows and rows of clothes hanging on pegs, to a narrow set of stairs. She crept down slowly, feeling her way.
At the foot of the stairs was a cavernous room. Pipes and valves and machinery loomed out of the darkness. She threaded her way between a complicated series of ropes and pulleys and an enormous mechanical sea monster and found another staircase beyond.
She climbed up and up, ducking beneath a wooden beam and several ropes and dangling sandbags. She opened a narrow door and was startled to find herself out on a balcony, with the empty stage and hundreds of red plush seats in rows below, and arches and gilt angels and stars above.
It was beautiful. Pale moonlight shone through the coloured glass windows in a dome in the centre of the ceiling. Marble columns, swags of golden flowers, fat cherubs and curling brass gas brackets gleamed in the shadows. The smells of cigar smoke and orange peel hung in the air.
Stella tiptoed along the curving balcony and pushed open a swinging door. Marble arches and pillars branched upwards and a wide staircase led down. She peeped around a marble lady, who stood at the head of the stairs, holding a gas lamp. Below, moonlight shone in through the glass entrance doors onto the patterned mosaic floor. The way out. Stella started down the stairs.
Suddenly, voices echoed, lantern light flickered and the glass doors swung open. The Professor strode in, followed by four or five other men. Stella darted back up the stairs and crouched behind the marble lady, her heart thumping.
The Professor was speaking. His voice was controlled and furious. ‘. . . fooled by a child. A girl. That rope hung well short of the walkway, it was a blind. And you imbeciles fell for it.’
Someone sneezed and a voice mumbled, ‘Flippin’ well fell right in the sea, didn’t I?’
Cautiously, Stella looked out from her hiding place. She saw the Professor whip around and lash out with his cane. There was a yelp. ‘Your own fault, you fool. And where is the boy?’
There was a muffled answer and the Professor snapped, ‘Run away? He can’t have got far. Go after him. Find him and bring him to me. Do you have the box?’
One of the men stepped forward. He held out a small box made of inlaid wood and brass. The Professor unlocked it with a key from his watch chain and opened it up. Stella leaned further out from behind the marble lady and peered down. The box was lined with blue velvet. The Professor reached inside and took out something small and dark and metallic. It looked like a black beetle.
He took a silver screwdriver from the box, inserted it into the beetle and twisted. Click. The glossy shell of the beetle opened and revealed gleaming clockwork inside.
‘The blanket,’ he said, snapping his fingers.
A man came forward. He held out the grey blanket Stella had been wrapped in. The Professor returned the screwdriver to the box and took a pair of silver tweezers. He beckoned the man holding the lantern to bring it closer. His green-tinted spectacles glinted in the light as he inspected the blanket.
‘Yes,’ he said, and picked something from its surface, using the tweezers. ‘Yes.’
A strand of pale hair gleamed in the lantern light. The Professor coiled the hair and placed it in the interior of the beetle and closed the shell with a click. Then he returned the tweezers to the box and took a silver key.
‘Undoubtedly she is concealed somewhere in the theatre.’ He inserted the key into the beetle and started to turn it, as if winding a watch. ‘I will remain here and watch this door and the stage door. There is no other way out. She cannot escape.’ He replaced the key in the box.
The beetle’s wings snapped open. It emitted a rattling buzz, took flight and hovered several inches above his palm.
‘If she is hiding, this will find her,’ he said. ‘Follow it.’
The beetle flew in a circle, as if taking a scent from the air. It circled again. Its flight was uneven but purposeful. It hovered for a moment and then turned decisively in the direction of the staircase.
Stella fled.
She pushed through the swing doors into the auditorium. She sprinted along the balcony, through the door at the end and ran headlong down the dark staircase.
At the foot of the stairs, she found herself again in the cavernous room underneath the stage, full of ropes and machinery. She could hear the beetle’s buzzing close behind, and the men’s voices and tramping feet following.
She dashed across the shadowy room, ducking between the looming obstacles and behind the enormous mechanical sea monster. A wooden ladder against the wall led upwards. She darted over and climbed it, as quickly and silently as she could, clutching the Atlas awkwardly to her chest. At the top, a narrow, unstable walkway wound between ropes and pulleys. Below were thumping noises, cursing and a loud sneeze. Stella looked down and saw the lantern swinging wildly and shadowy figures stumbling around.
She crept along the walkway and found another ladder. She climbed down and pushed open a door into a dark passageway.
She heard the buzzing noise again, sudden and close. She gasped and ducked. The beetle skimmed past her ear.
She tried a door. It was locked. She darted to the next one and rattled the handle. It was locked too, and so was the next. The beetle flew hard into the side of her head. She yelped and batted it away with the Atlas.
Gasping, she dashed to the next door and turned the handle. It opened. Too late, she saw a light shining and heard someone snoring. She hesitated. The beetle banged into her cheek. Panicky, she swatted wildly at it. It flew into her face again. She swung the Atlas and knocked it away. It collided with the wall and fell to the floor. The buzzing faltered and stopped.
She darted into the room and closed the door silently behind her. She stood with her back to it, panting.
A lamp glowed and a coal fire hissed in a small grate. Woven baskets and empty cages were stacked in piles. There was a strong smell of fish. A man was sleeping in a chair. He was small and fat, with a curled black moustache. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. His braces were embroidered with roses. There was a rug over his knees and on the rug slept an enormous tabby cat. A black and white cat lay across the man’s shoulders and another cat sprawled on a small table beside a violin. Everywhere Stella looked there were sleeping cats. The sound of their purring filled the room.
In the passageway outside, she heard buzzing start up again. Her heart sank. It started and stopped several times, then started determinedly. The beetle flew hard against the door. Knock, knock.
The sleeping man muttered something and woke up with a snort. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Eh? What? Avanti. Who is there? Come in.’
The beetle collided with the door again. Knock, knock, knock.
Stella ducked behind a screen that stood in a corner, concealing a small washstand. She put her eye to a gap in the screen where the hinges met.
Knock, knock, knock.
Knock, knock, knock.
Behind the screen, Stella held her breath.
The man called, ‘Come in,’ again. He muttered something, pushed the cat off his lap, lifted the second cat from his shoulders and stood up. ‘Yes, yes. I am coming.’
He opened the door. The beetle flew into the room and banged against a cage. A cat swiped at it.
‘Gastone!’ said the man. ‘Attento! What is it? Be most careful! It is a frightful insect!’
The beetle flew in a lopsided circle, buzzing erratically. The man flapped his hands at it and knocked a cage over. It crashed to the floor, startling the cats. A small grey cat jumped high and batted at the beetle as it flew past. A ginger cat leaped from the top of a basket to the mantelpiece, knocking off several dishes and a tin mug, and stood, poised to jump, lashing its tail. Several cats hissed loudly. The enormous tabby sprung into the air from the back of the chair, paws outstretched.
‘No, Alfredo! No!’ cried the man, waving his arms. Two more cages toppled over.
The cat knocked the beetle out of the air. The beetle hit the ground. The cat landed beside it, picked the beetle up in its mouth and started to chew, with a thoughtful expression.
‘Alfredo! Drop it! Cattivo!’ said the man. He clasped the big cat in his arms and prised open its mouth. The beetle fell out onto the floor. It gave a wavering, buzzing rattle and lay still. The man peered at it. He put the cat down and poked the beetle with his finger. The shell clicked open and several tiny pieces of clockwork fell out.
The man muttered, ‘Molto strano,’ and gingerly picked up the beetle. He peered into its insides. He extracted the strand of hair, held it between his thumb and finger thoughtfully for a moment and then put it into the fire.
He placed the beetle on the mantelpiece, shut the door and began to pick up the fallen cages and tidy the room, talking to the cats in a calming, sing-song voice in a foreign language. Not French, Stella thought. Even more foreign than French.
He sat back in his chair, shook out the rug and laid it over his knees. He seized a black bottle from the table beside him, pulled out the cork with his teeth and took a swig. The big tabby cat jumped up onto his lap, turned around twice and started to wash its paws. The black and white cat sprawled across his shoulders.
The man thrust the cork back into the bottle, clasped his hands over his belly and closed his eyes.
Before Stella could move, there was a loud thump outside in the passageway, followed by muffled cursing and a sneeze. The door handle rattled and the door banged open.
Two men strode into the room. Stella recognised her kidnappers, Scuttler and Charlie. Charlie held the lantern in a hand like a bunch of sausages. Two more men crowded in behind them. One was limping, and the other was shivering and dripping, wrapped in the hairy grey blanket. He sneezed miserably.
The fat man rubbed his eyes and exclaimed in a foreign language.
‘Mr Capelli.’ Scuttler sounded surprised.
The fat man sat up in the chair, careful not to disturb the cats, and said, ‘Why are you awaking me?’
‘Didn’t know you was in here.’
‘My Alfredo, I think he is indisposto, unwell,’ said the fat man, stroking the cat on his lap. It opened its green eyes and stared at the intruders. ‘So I sit with him tonight. But, no, I think he has — what is the word — malata di nostalgia? So I feed him a herring, and all is good.’
Scuttler said, ‘We’re looking for a buzzbug. A beetle.’ His gaze darted around the room.
Behind the screen, Stella froze.
‘Yes, the insect is here. It is already awaking me. It is a most dreadful creature. It would certainly be injuring my cats!’ He pointed at the mantelpiece, where the beetle lay.
‘Cripes. The Professor’ll be spittin’ blue murder,’ said Charlie. He went over and poked the beetle. It gave a short, rattling buzz and he jumped nervously.
‘It is attacking my cats. It was most frightful.’
‘Maybe that was a cat hair he put in it, accidental,’ said Scuttler. ‘So it went chasing after cats instead of the nipper. Give it here, Charlie.’
Charlie passed him the beetle, and Scuttler took it gingerly between a finger and thumb and peered into it. ‘There ain’t no hair in it now, any rate.’ He shrugged and wrapped it in a grimy handkerchief and pushed it into his pocket. ‘We’re looking for a nipper. A little girl,’ he said, turning to the fat man.
‘There is nobody here.’ He shook his head. ‘As you can see. Only me and my cats.’
Charlie came further into the room. He held the lantern aloft and peered behind a stack of cages. Stella watched him approach, her heart thumping.
A ginger cat, lying on top of the cages, hissed at him. ‘Nice puss,’ he said nervously. The cat lashed out with a paw. He jumped back. ‘Flippin’ hell.’
‘Gastone! No!’ said the fat man, looking agitated. ‘You must go. You are most disturbing to my cats. There is nobody here.’
‘It’s for the Professor. The nipper stole something off him.’ Charlie sucked his hand where the cat had scratched him. ‘She’s skrivin’ somewhere.’
‘She is not here,’ said the fat man firmly.
‘Like he says, it’s for the Professor. We got to search the whole ken.’ Scuttler looked apprehensively at the angry cat. It flattened its ears against its head and hissed again. Another cat yowled and swiped a paw at the wet man in the blanket. He shrank back. A cat jumped up onto a basket and made a sound like steam escaping from a kettle. The men flinched.
‘Gastone! Flora! Giorgio!’ the fat man cried. ‘Truly, you must depart. You can see there is no child here.’
The men backed away nervously from the angry cats. Scuttler said, ‘Well, Mr Capelli. Keep your oglers open.’
‘Yes, yes.’
They gave one final glance around the room, then turned and left, slamming the door behind them. Their footsteps tramped away.
The fat man spoke in his calming voice, in the foreign language, and stroked all the cats within reach. One by one, they settled down and started to purr. The man leaned back in his chair and took another swig from the black bottle. He sighed and closed his eyes.
Stella watched until the man and all the cats seemed to be sleeping. She waited several more minutes. When everything was quite still, she crept out from behind the screen and tiptoed towards the door.
She put her ear to it and listened. There were voices and footsteps not far away. A door slammed and someone sneezed. Cautiously, she turned the handle.
A movement behind her made her jump. She turned and saw the fat man was awake. He smiled. ‘Wait,’ he whispered.
He put a finger to his lips. Stella hesitated, hugging the Atlas to her chest.
He gently removed the sleeping cats and stood up. He went to the door and listened, his head to one side. Then he opened it, and he and Stella looked out into the darkness.
After a moment, he whispered, ‘They have gone away. They are out of hearing. They will not come back, I think. You are quite safe.’ He closed the door again and turned the key. He smiled at her. ‘I am Otto Capelli,’ he said. ‘This is Alfredo.’ He pointed to the enormous tabby cat sitting on the chair. Alfredo yawned and stared peacefully at Stella through half-closed eyes. ‘Violetta.’ He indicated the black and white cat. ‘Annina, Gastone, Flora,’ he pointed to the seven cats one by one, ‘and Georgio and little Guiseppe.’ The cats wore beautiful leather collars with their names stamped in gold. Mr Capelli spread out his hands with a flourish and bowed. ‘Signor Capelli’s Educated Cats. We are most famous, yes?’
Stella thought she had seen his name on a poster at the entrance to the pier and so she nodded. ‘I’m — my name is Stella Montgomery,’ she said. She put out a hand to Guiseppe, a smallish grey cat perched on top of a basket. He touched her finger with his nose, blinked at her and purred. She stroked his soft fur.
‘Stella. It means star. You know this?’ asked Mr Capelli.
Stella shook her head.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘In my language. Yes. My cats like you. That is good.’
‘They are lovely,’ she said. It was true. The cats were plump with glossy fur and alert expressions.
‘Yes, yes. They are most beautiful. And they are artistes.’ He picked up the violin. ‘See.’ He plucked a couple of the strings. All the cats turned their heads towards him and looked attentive.
He took the bow and started to play a strange, wild, wailing tune. The cats sat up straight and watched him, ears pricked.
Mr Capelli smiled at them and nodded.
The cats opened their mouths and began to sing.
The cats’ singing was the strangest sound, a yowling accompaniment to the violin’s melody, rising and falling in chorus. Mr Capelli smiled and nodded and swayed from side to side as he played. His bow skipped across the strings and his fingers danced. Every now and then, one cat sang higher or louder or longer and Mr Capelli said, ‘Si, Alfredo. Yes, yes. Good, Gastone. Very good. Yes, Annina, bella mia.’
Stella thought it was somewhat like the sound of a steam organ with many different wailing, wheezing pipes. It was quite beautiful.
The song rose to a high keening note and then died away.
Stella clapped.
Mr Capelli beamed as he laid down the violin. ‘My cats are artistes, yes?’ He stroked the cats and said something to each of them. They looked lovingly into his face.
‘H-how do you teach them?’ Stella asked.
He held up three fingers and counted. ‘Kindness. Patience. Fish.’ He threw a cushion onto the hearthrug and waved a welcoming hand at it. ‘Come, sit here. It is warm.’
Stella hesitated. Alfredo, the enormous tabby, jumped down onto the rug. He arched his back, stretched and lay down next to the cushion. He blinked welcomingly at her. She went over and sat down beside him. Flora, a smaller tortoiseshell cat with round orange eyes, came towards her, purring. Stella stroked them both. The coal fire hissed. It was very agreeable to feel warm.
Withering-by-Sea Page 8
