The Secret Stealer

by Jess Webster

  “You did that to him, Miss Mason-Smith?” James gaped at her.

  “Well, I didn’t do it directly, but that’s the way vengeance should be. Subtlety, James. Subtlety is the key.”

  “You made Andrew sick for a week because he punched me?”

  “Of course.” Esther smiled with a peculiarly vengeful, maternal little sparkle in her eyes.

  “That was the bestest week of my life, Miss Mason-Smith…” James sighed reminiscently.

  Esther smiled and felt, just then, an almost insatiable urge to turn all James’ antagonists into wart-covered toads. But it occurred to her that there were more than enough toads in Australia, and anyway, that was something Blythe would know how to do. Esther did not. It was probably just as well.

  James seemed to consider Esther’s advice momentarily, then shrugged. “Do you mind if we try just the letter thing again? That was fun.”

  Esther sighed. Oh well, she thought to herself, at least it would be amusing to see what he came up with this time. And he was right – it really was fun. What James came up with, incidentally, was the following:

  Dear [insert name],

  Don’t just not be mean to Lilith Palmer, be extra nice to her, or I’ll do everything to you that I threatened to do yesterday.

  I’ll be watching you.

  Yours sincerely,

  The Ghost of Westcott

  On the following day James observed the four girls and their behaviour towards Lilith. Nadine, Madison, Ophelia and Lucy obviously made an effort to include Lilith in their little troupe, much to the confusion and envy of many other girls in the class. James watched Lilith Palmer with all the interest of a guardian angel, delighting every time she smiled, and feeling every frown like an arrow to the left atrium[81] . But again, he would only deem the day’s work a success after seeing Lilith write a happy note to Mr Magic Bumblebee.

  Unfortunately, today was not to be the day. That night, Lilith Palmer wrote:

  I’m so confused Mr MB (sorry, it’s Thursday). Two days ago they were so so nasty to me and now theyre practicly falling over each other trying to sit next to me and give me nice things and complement me. Accept that when they are being nice to me it dosnt seem like they want to. It still seems like theyre afraid of me somehow, but i dont know why and it is driving me MAD!!! They have that look in their eyes like in Snowshoes’s[82] when she would be chased by Hitler[83]. I dont want to eat them! Hitler might, if he was here! I just want one friend in this big cold place. Goodnight, Mr MB.

  Lilith Palmer cried herself to sleep again that night. She missed Miss Lewis, from the orphanage. But Miss Lewis had (rightly so) told her this was a very good opportunity; to be educated at a prestigious Sydney boarding school was not a chance that many orphans got.

  Soon Lilith managed to fall asleep, feeling comforted by the strange sensation that someone… someone was there beside her. She wasn’t alone. No. Someone, some invisible, lovely being, was watching over her and protecting her. Perhaps God had sent her an angel to make her feel better. She thought it very kind of him, seeing as she hadn’t even got around to asking him yet. Burning on the inside of her closed eyelids, that place where all mental images come, she had the most ludicrous picture of God’s angel being a young boy in teddy-bear pyjamas. She had always pictured angels as wearing white dresses[84], but hey, God was God, and she supposed he knew what he was doing. She murmured, half in dreamland, half out, “Thank you, whoever you are.”

  James sighed, and waited till Lilith Palmer settled into what he presumed was the slow, rhythmic breathing of sleep. “I am James Winchester the Fourth,” he whispered, “and I’ll protect you. Don’t worry.”

  He would have done well to have kept his mouth shut, for Lilith Palmer had heard every word he said.

  Friday’s blackmail note ran as follows:

  Dear [insert name]

  Don’t be mean to Lilith Palmer. And don’t just pretend to be nice to Lilith Palmer. Actually be nice to Lilith Palmer. And don’t look scared while you do it. Or I’ll do everything to you that I threatened to do the day before yesterday.

  I’ll be watching you.

  Yours sincerely,

  The Ghost of Westcott

  James did not quite realise that he had asked the impossible. He had not yet grasped Miss Mason-Smith’s concept of subtle vengeance, and Miss Mason-Smith did not wish to intervene until he was convinced that hers was the way to do things. Besides, she was quite content to continue to write out the hopelessly specific blackmail notes as he dictated them, and also quite content to watch Nadine, Madison, Ophelia and Lucy squirm under James’ ever vigilant gaze. Esther believed she had never been quite so amused in her entire life.

  Friday saw the four blackmailed girls collapse into fearful puddles of tears at the very sight of Lilith Palmer. They could not even attempt to be nice to her because they were so confused by the idea of (a) actually being nice and (b) not pretending to be so whilst also (c) not appearing to be afraid, that their brains began to hurt. Consequently, the four began to suffer dull, throbbing headaches and a constant up-welling of tears.

  Lilith Palmer appeared confused and distressed. It probably wasn’t her usual experience, after all, to make girls cry on sight. Several times she attempted to speak to the four girls, but James was never close enough to hear what they were saying. Besides, the four girls looked completely incapable of giving a rational answer in their present state.

  James frowned, feeling the despair of defeat sinking in. It wasn’t working. He had to try a different approach. Suddenly it struck him: that’s what Miss Mason-Smith had meant! People behaved the way they did because of what they thought of others. He couldn’t just change how the girls behaved, he had to change how they thought. He cut his observations short and headed back to base.

  “You know, Miss Mason-Smith,” he started, “I think I know what you mean now. By getting revenge in a way that isn’t so obvious, you know?”

  Esther smiled inwardly, although outwardly presenting him with a very serious and very approving face. “I’m glad you have come to this conclusion, James. Now, how should we make people be nice to Lilith Palmer, in a way that isn’t obvious?”

  “Maybe we should make them all sick, like you did to Andrew,” he suggested.

  Nurse Esther could not control the chuckle that escaped her. Still laughing, she said, “I don’t think that will work in this particular situation, James. Four girls sick at once is a lot more obvious than just one boy.”

  James frowned. “I don’t know, Miss Mason-Smith, I really don’t.”

  “Let’s think about why the children feel they can pick on her.”

  “I suppose they think they’re better than her,” James reasoned.

  “And why might that be?” Esther prompted.

  “Is it because they’re rich?”

  “But you, James, are rich. Andrew has been picking on you since kindergarten. It must be something else.”

  What was it, then? James racked his brain for reasons, his brow furrowed in severe concentration. Maybe it was because she had blonde-ish hair and the girls were jealous. No, it couldn’t be that, because Nadine Alcott-Bradley had blonde hair, and none of the girls picked on her. Then he began to change his direction of thought. Maybe it wasn’t something about her person, but something more removed, like her situation. She wasn’t rich, of course, but that wasn’t all: she was an orphan. In a school like this, who your parents were was everything.

  Suddenly he had it – the common factor! James, though rich, was picked on (ultimately) because his parents never appeared at family events. Indeed, none of his classmates had even seen Yvette or Walter. For all they knew James might have had no parents at all. He said decisively, “She needs parents. Rich ones.”

  Esther found herself giving the ceiling a very hard stare, just as James had been wont to do not so long ago. Parents, she laughed inwardly. What strange ideas James had! “And where, James,” she asked, “are you going to find a ric
h, attractive couple who want children and who owe you a favour large enough to adopt someone at your request?”

  After a moment James’ frown turned into a joyous grin. “Barbados,” he said.

  Lesson Thirteen: One should NEVER drink any clear liquid without first ascertaining its chemical structure…

  or you might just mistake vodka for water and end up with alcohol poisoning.

  “Blythe? A mother?” Esther Mason-Smith threw her head back and laughed. A few moments later she had recovered enough to speak more rationally, saying, “Don’t inflict my evil sister on that poor little orphan girl.”

  “She’s not evil,” James objected.

  “Her behaviour would suggest otherwise, James.”

  “Are you perfect?” the little pyjama-clad boy before her demanded.

  Esther felt like snapping ‘yes’ in reply, but realised that he was right. It was particularly humbling to be taught lessons by a nine-year-old, but Esther was not so superior or stubborn that she could not recognise a lesson where a lesson was to be had. At last she shook her head, saying, “No, James. I’m not perfect. No one is.”

  “She’s not as bad as some people, so I think she might make a good mum. She just needs to learn to be a little more patient, that’s all,” James said mildly.

  “She’s needed to learn that since she was about eight.”

  “Well you can tell her, next time you see her.”

  Esther muttered beneath her breath, “I like my head where it is.”

  “Well she’s related to you, which is good. I think you’d make a very nice mum.”

  There it was again. That strange throb in her chest, which made her want to abandon everything, get married and just have babies. Ah, but the downside: that required a husband. She thought of Byron Gables and grimaced.

  In any case, if she ever managed to rid James of this curse, she determined that the first thing she would do would be to give him a completely embarrassing mother-ish hug. “Well,” she finally conceded, “if you’re going to ask them, we’d better look up this Sandpiper Hotel, huh?”

  “James Winchester?” Ew-Boy looked a little afraid to speak the name. “Of course I know ’im.”

  Having heard her little ghost-angel let his name slip the previous evening, Lilith Palmer had spent her entire morning asking anybody and everybody if they knew anything of him. But Nadine, Lucy, Madison and Ophelia (who had been so ridiculously nice to her yesterday) now burst into tears at the mere sight of her. Consequently none of the other girls would talk to her, either out of fear or some warped sense of class loyalty[85] . The boys chuckled to themselves and seemed to appreciate the entertainment, but none would volunteer any information. Until now. And it just had to be Ew-Boy, Lilith thought wryly to herself. But curiosity, with Lilith, nearly always overrode every other sensation – even loathing, hatred and disgust.

  “How do you know him?” she asked.

  Ew-Boy looked about the classroom apprehensively and after another moment replied with, “He used to sit in your seat.”

  Lilith felt the shock forcefully, as if the floor had opened into an abyss beneath her and she was left clutching at something entirely too flimsy to support her own weight. She almost did not want to enquire further, afraid of what she might discover.

  But curiosity would always win over fear in Lilith’s mind, for as she saw it, ‘curiosity’ was bigger, and ‘fear’ had only an ‘ear’ to wield a curved ‘f’[86] . Fear didn’t stand a chance. Finally she whispered, “Why isn’t he here now?”

  “Ran away. Or kidnapped. Or died. Nobody really knows. There was a search party and everything, but nobody could find ’im.”

  “He might be… dead?” Lilith felt something cold clasp about her throat. Maybe her angel was a ghost! She didn’t mind being haunted. No, the thing that made her feel terribly shaken was the idea that a boy, her own age, could disappear, leaving no trace whatsoever.

  “Let’s hope so.” Ew-Boy grinned evilly.

  “You’re not a very nice boy, Andrew Harrison.”

  “Don’t have to be nice,” he snapped. “I’m rich.”

  Secretly, a moment later, he wished that he’d thought of pretending to be sympathetic about the whole James thing, seeing as Lilith Palmer seemed inclined to be. After all, she was quite pretty. And Andrew, being rich, knew that he needn’t marry for money – he could marry anyone he liked. Perhaps he should change his tack, he thought.

  “Come to think of it,” he said, his eyes seeming far away, “he wasn’t such a bad little kid.”

  “What was he like?” Lilith asked, ravenously curious about her ghost-angel.

  “A little above your height, real skinny. Brownish hair, kinda like a mop.”

  “Dark blue eyes?”

  Andrew’s face scrunched up with thought. “I always thought he had brown eyes. Well, dark, anyway.”

  Lilith felt oddly excited. The description so far matched the image that had come to her in that strange, suggestible state between consciousness and unconsciousness.

  “He was a quiet kid,” Ew-Boy said, sighing. “Didn’t say much at all.” Suddenly he wished he knew a little more about James, so he could keep the golden-haired girl’s attention. Then Andrew Harrison VI had an idea that made him believe he was the smartest child on the planet. He continued wistfully, “James and I used to be real good friends, you know.”

  “But you just said you hoped he was dead,” Lilith objected, her tone accusing.

  “No, that’s not what I meant at all. It was a kind of personal joke. We’d pretend that we hated each other, just to keep things interesting. It was a fun game.”

  Lilith was quite sure, by now, that Ew-Boy was lying. Nevertheless, she continued to listen.

  “We used to do all our homework together, ’cause he lived in the room next to mine, you know. He was a smart kid[87] . Now he’s gone I’ve got no one to help me with my homework.” He sighed heavily. “I know! You’re a scholarship student, right? I’m sure you’re real smart. You could help me!”

  Lilith could not hide the whiteness that stole over her face at the prospect of an entire afternoon attempting to help this buffoon with his homework. But suddenly she thought of something. Ew-Boy had said that he lived next to James’ room. Her ghost-angel wasn’t always with her, so perhaps he haunted his old room at other times. No one else seemed to want to speak of James Winchester, so it was a safe bet that Andrew was her only chance of finding James’ room.

  “Are girls even allowed in the boys’ dorms?” she asked.

  “Until seven p.m., they are,” Andrew replied very quickly.

  Lilith pretended to think the proposal over for a moment or two. “Alright, Andrew, I’ll help you with your homework.”

  They shook hands on it and it was a done deal. Lilith had a nasty feeling of entrapment, just then. As if that aforementioned abyss had just closed over the top of her, and she was left alone in the dark. Well, alone with Ew-Boy, anyway. Which was worse.

  A couple of days and three packets of rehydration salts after our last meeting with Blythe and Domenic, the two had sufficiently recovered from their food poisoning to spend the majority of their day on their balcony, instead of hunched over the toilet in anticipation of further damage to their respective oesophagi. At present they were observing the slow and stately march of the sun, as it set behind gently rolling waves.

  “What do you think it should be?” Blythe asked.

  “What?” Domenic said sleepily.

  “The thing we’re going to do for James.”

  “Oh. I don’t know. Do you think the wedding will be disaster-free if we just decide to do something nice?”

  Blythe frowned. “I don’t think that’ll be enough.”

  “You’re probably right. Heron poop and food-poisoning are probably just the beginning.”

  “Wait here a minute,” Blythe murmured, and struggled up.

  Domenic, who had fully intended to remain exactly where he was anyway, smiled
and replied, “Of course. Anything for you, m’dear.”

  After a full minute Domenic began to wonder what Blythe was up to, and turned to look into the dark hotel suite to see her emerge with a slip of paper and a pen (compliments of the Sandpiper Hotel).

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  She handed both objects to him and said, “Read it and sign down the bottom.”

  To whom it may concern,

  We, Domenic Mancini and Blythe Pritchard, do solemnly swear to agree to ANYTHING James Winchester IV requests of us, in repayment for our cruel and unjust treatment of him. May we continue under these same punishments if we refuse, but may we continue our lives unhindered by such disasters once we have signed this document and given our word to help James (unless his request requires us to be apart or to break our vows of marriage).

  Sincerely,

  Domenic Mancini & Blythe Pritchard

  “Anything?” Domenic hesitated. “What if he’s angry and wants all the Secret Stealer fortune, or, I don’t know, wants us to be his lackeys for the rest of our lives?”

  “Come on, Dom!” Blythe laughed. “He’s only nine years old. A completely naïve, nice little kid who’s probably never even come close to feeling angry in his entire life. The worst thing he could ask is for us to help him find another Potential.”

  “Are you sure?” Domenic asked doubtfully. “And didn’t you say you sent them a postcard saying pretty much the same thing?”

  “Ah, but I didn’t write it seriously, not like this contract. And I jumped the gun – I signed it for the both of us.”

  “‘Anything’ is a pretty open word, Blythe.”

  “I don’t think anything less open would suffice,” she answered seriously. “Do you want to get married or not?”

  Domenic smiled. “You’re probably right. What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?” He took the pen and signed.

  Neither Blythe nor Domenic knew whether the peace that descended upon them then was as a direct result of signing that document or whether it was simply the lifting of that feeling of guilt from their shoulders; in any case, the two soon drifted into a restful, dreamless sleep.