The Secret of Nightingale Wood

by Lucy Strange

  ‘Whoops-a-daisy,’ I muttered, smiling a little as I held the gummed flap of the envelope over the plume of steam escaping from the spout. ‘I seem to have quite accidentally . . . steamed open . . . this letter.’ The paper dampened slightly. I tried the envelope with my thumb, and it opened stickily. I bit my lip, stealing a glance out of the back door to make sure Mrs Berry was still busily occupied with the washing.

  Dear Jane,

  I hope you received my telegram in reply to your urgent message. I thought I ought to write to reassure you and clarify the situation.

  Yes, I have given my permission for the Hardys to take care of the baby for a little while. I am sorry I did not get a chance to talk to you about this properly before Doctor Hardy’s phone call.

  I felt as if I had been struck in the stomach by a cannon ball. What? The Hardys taking care of Piglet? No, please, no . . . I remembered the telephone call I had overheard the other day, I thought about Nanny Jane’s reluctant voice and her closed, rigid face during the Hardys’ visit . . . Father had given permission for the Hardys to take Piglet away!

  It is very kind of them to offer to help at this difficult time and it means you can dedicate more time to looking after Mrs Abbott while she is so fragile. Doctor Hardy has been highly recommended, as you know, and I feel confident that he and his wife will take excellent care of the baby.

  I shall communicate further with Doctor Hardy about the possibility of Mrs Abbott’s admittance to Helldon. He seems convinced that it would be the best course of action.

  I know Henrietta will be worried about her mother and sister. Please try to reassure her that these decisions are for the best.

  Regards,

  John Abbott

  As if I were sleepwalking, I crossed the hallway, went down the corridor and into Father’s study. I found some glue and resealed the envelope. It looked as good as new. While I had been steaming the envelope open it had felt like a game – I had been an actress playing a part in a moving picture. But it wasn’t a game any more. It was horribly real.

  I took the letter up to Nanny Jane in the nursery and handed it to her without looking her in the eye. I looked at the sleeping Piglet and briefly – madly – considered seizing her in my arms and running away with her – out of the house, down the road, all the way back to London . . . Instead, I muttered something about having a terrible headache, and tottered back downstairs. I felt as if a hundred bluebottles had hatched inside my brain and were buzzing blindly around inside my skull.

  I gazed dumbly at my reflection in the hall mirror. The girl who looked back at me was a complete stranger. She was older than me, and thinner and sadder. She had dark circles around her eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  Her mouth moved but she made no sound. She stared helplessly at me, trapped behind the glass. I touched my fingertips to hers and watched as her face crumpled and she sobbed silently. My whole world is being torn apart, I thought. And there is nothing I can do. Soon everyone I love will be gone.

  ‘For the last time, Henrietta – did you take my key and unlock your mother’s bedroom door?’ Nanny Jane demanded.

  Doctor Hardy had been called and he stood there beside Nanny Jane, red-faced and quivering. He glared down at me as if I were a horrible little insect.

  I looked Nanny Jane boldly in the eye and then glared back at Doctor Hardy too, just for good measure. ‘I did not take your key,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how Mama’s door came to be unlocked this morning . . .’ I thought about the key that hung secretly around my neck, beneath my nightgown, and hoped it wasn’t visible.

  Doctor Hardy tried a different strategy. ‘I know it may seem cruel to keep her door locked, Henrietta,’ he said, his voice dripping with something revolting instead of sympathy, ‘but Mummy is not in her . . . She’s not quite herself. She might easily fall down the stairs. We must do our best to look after her, mustn’t we?’ It was a dirty tactic.

  ‘I understand,’ I said flatly. ‘I did not unlock the door. Honestly.’

  Nanny Jane sighed with frustration. She clearly didn’t believe me. Doctor Hardy rolled his eyes at her, and I saw red.

  ‘I know what you’re plotting, Doctor Hardy,’ I said quickly. ‘I know you’re plotting to take Piglet away.’

  Doctor Hardy laughed. He laughed. ‘Plotting?’ His saliva sprayed in my face.

  Nanny Jane did not laugh. The expression on her face made me go cold. I swallowed with fear. I suddenly felt very small and stupid, standing there in my nightgown, throwing accusations at people.

  ‘We will discuss this later, young lady,’ Nanny Jane hissed. She and the doctor turned together and went down the stairs.

  You idiot, Hen! I had done it all wrong. I had lost my temper. I should have picked my moment. I should have talked to Nanny Jane alone. I should have spoken calmly, rationally, like a grown-up . . . Like Robert would have done.

  ‘Get dressed for the day, Henry!’ Nanny Jane shouted up from the hallway. ‘Now, please!’

  But I didn’t want to. I went swiftly along the corridor and tried Mama’s door. Locked again. I couldn’t risk using my key while Doctor Hardy was still here . . . If I was caught, both he and Nanny Jane would be convinced that I was lying. I couldn’t bear it.

  I tried to think of the words I ought to use to explain my fears to Nanny Jane – but everything I could think of sounded childish and hysterical. I wondered if I should try to explain my Rumpelstiltskin idea – that Mama couldn’t possibly get well while she was locked in a cell full of straw . . . A cell full of straw? My mind was getting so muddled . . .

  As I stood there outside Mama’s room, my heart still pounding with anger and confusion, I noticed that the low door to the attic room was not fully closed. I slipped through and crept up the stairs.

  I sat down on the bed, tears running down my cheeks. I let them fall. Something wild surged up from deep within me and I wanted to roar with rage. I punched the mattress with a tight, white-knuckled fist. A cloud of dust billowed into the air. I was furious with myself for blurting out what I knew about the plans to take Piglet away, and I was furious with Nanny Jane and the doctor for making me feel like a criminal, for accusing me of something I hadn’t done. I hadn’t unlocked Mama’s door in the night – had I?

  Then I noticed something very odd. The attic was different. The long tendril of cobweb was no longer dangling from the ceiling. The model ships on the shelf had moved. A ship with a broken mast had somehow found its way to the little table beside the bed. My scalp prickled.

  I got up and looked at the books by the window. Moonfleet lay open at the title page – the name A. Young was scrawled there in a clumsy, childish hand. Is that the name of the little boy who once lived here? I wondered, tracing the writing with my finger. Is he part of this mystery somehow? Then I saw that all the books had been rearranged neatly, in alphabetical order. Someone has been in here. Someone has been creeping around Hope House while we are all asleep.

  Then a horrible thought struck me. What if it was me? Maybe I had unlocked Mama’s door and crept up the secret stairs to the attic in the middle of the night . . . What if Moth was wrong and Doctor Hardy was right and I really did have emerging symptoms after all?

  I stared out of the cartwheel window towards the sea, the key trembling against my breastbone.

  After luncheon, Nanny Jane asked me if I wanted to walk with her to the village. Her manner was stiff and cool, but I sensed that she was sorry for our argument that morning. I agreed to go.

  We walked along the verge at the side of the road in silence. Nanny Jane walked a few brisk paces ahead and I dragged behind, pulling at strands of grass and stripping away the dried seeds with my thumb and finger. I couldn’t stop thinking about the mysteriously unlocked door, the model ships sailing spookily around the dusty shelves of the attic all by themselves . . .

  We crossed over a river, and I stood on the stone bridge for a moment, gazing into the shallow water. The waterweed was thick an
d tangled, like the tangle of thoughts in my brain. This was the first time Nanny Jane had taken me with her to the village of Little Birdham, but she had been coming here nearly every day – to post letters and send telegrams. I thought about Father’s letter and the decision to send Piglet away. How many other decisions were being made that I knew nothing about?

  Nanny Jane turned and looked back at me, frowning into the bright sunshine. She opened her mouth to call out, but stopped herself. Instead, she walked back to join me on the bridge.

  ‘They’re going to take Piglet, aren’t they?’ I said quietly, looking straight ahead at the river. ‘Doctor Hardy and his wife.’

  Nanny Jane didn’t say anything for a moment, then she said, ‘I’m not happy about it either, Henry. I have taken care of your sister since the day she was born.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Your father thinks it’s a good idea. So I can spend more time looking after Mama—’

  ‘Whose idea was it?’ I interrupted. ‘Was it Father’s idea, or was it Doctor Hardy’s?’

  Nanny Jane faltered: ‘I think – I think it may have been the doctor’s idea first. But your father trusts him completely.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ I snapped.

  Nanny Jane sighed. She did that a lot these days.

  ‘It’s not for ever, Henry – it’s just for a little while. Until Mama gets better.’

  ‘But she might never get better,’ I muttered, feeling as if I were five years old. ‘I don’t think she will ever get better if she is drugged and locked in a room all by herself.’

  ‘Henry, please—’

  ‘And Mrs Hardy can’t possibly look after Piglet – she’s horrible. She’s a horrible rude old – lizard woman.’

  Nanny Jane’s nostrils flared and she bit her lip, as if she were smothering a smile.

  ‘Mrs Hardy may not be quite your cup of tea, Henry, or mine either for that matter,’ she said at last. ‘But she will look after your sister perfectly well, I’m sure.’

  ‘But I can look after her,’ I insisted. ‘I’ll be more helpful – I promise.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Henry,’ Nanny Jane said. And she seemed to be choosing her words carefully now. ‘Doctor Hardy is worried about the effect your mother’s illness is having on you.’

  ‘What do you mean? It isn’t having any effect on me,’ I protested, confused.

  ‘He’s worried about you, and he doesn’t think it’s healthy . . .’ She went on, ‘He doesn’t think it’s safe for the baby to be in the house at the moment.’

  ‘Not healthy?’ I nearly choked on the words. ‘Not safe?’

  ‘Henry, I’m sorry,’ she said soothingly. ‘This is awful for all of us. Please try to stay calm. Please try to understand that your father is simply trying to make the best decisions he can under the circumstances.’

  My hands trembled on the railing of the bridge.

  ‘Nanny Jane, what is Helldon?’ My voice sounded very, very small.

  Nanny Jane’s head jerked towards me. ‘How do you know about—’ But then she inhaled and changed her tone. ‘Don’t worry about any of that, Henry,’ she said. ‘Nobody is going to Helldon.’

  ‘But what is it?’

  Nanny Jane tucked my hair behind my ear. ‘Come along,’ she said briskly, and she fished around in her purse. She found a coin and pressed it into my hand. ‘Let’s go and explore the shops. You can get some sweets if you like.’ And she started walking again.

  Little Birdham was a small village, in a sort of T shape, and the river curled around it like the tail of a sleeping cat. Two neat, white-washed little buildings stood in front of us – the post office and the village shop. Nanny Jane said she would go in to post some letters and send a telegram, then she had some shopping to do. I should meet her back on the bridge in half an hour and in the meantime I was free to explore.

  Half an hour . . . A plan whizzed around in my mind, taking shape like wet clay on a potter’s wheel.

  I walked straight past the village shop, glimpsing all the brightly coloured jars of sweets in the window but resisting the temptation to go inside. I didn’t have time for sweets today. I walked past a butcher’s shop, a greengrocer and bakery, but by the end of the high street I had still not found what I was looking for.

  I came to a junction and stood trying to decide which direction I should take. To my left the road appeared to lead to the village green. This, I thought, was where Doctor Hardy’s surgery was. In the other direction, up a hill, I could see the church and a row of terraced houses. A white signpost read HAWKHAM. Up the hill to Hawkham, or towards the village green?

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ asked an elderly lady in a straw hat.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, smiling politely, and turned left. I stopped again almost immediately.

  The door in front of me was painted bright yellow and had a knocker like the head of a lion. A brass plate bore the words SOLOMON AND PICKERSGILL, SOLICITORS. This was the place I had been looking for, the office of the solicitor to whom Mrs Berry had sent the limping man – Doctor Chilvers. This was my chance to find out more about him and why he was lurking around Hope House asking so many questions.

  I knocked on the door. It swung open at my first knock to reveal a smartly dressed young lady sitting behind a desk. The hallway was quiet and smelt a bit like a library – paper, staplers and dusty carpets.

  ‘Is Mr Pickersgill available, please?’ I asked, trying to make myself as tall as possible. I hoped I didn’t look – as I usually did – too much like a scarecrow.

  The secretary smiled and her cheeks dimpled. I couldn’t tell if she was amused or simply being friendly. ‘I’ll just check, Miss,’ she said. ‘Who should I say it is, please?’

  ‘Henrietta Abbott,’ I said. ‘We are tenants at Hope House.’

  The girl checked a large diary at the side of her desk and then disappeared down the corridor.

  I shifted my weight from one foot to another as I waited. The floorboards creaked beneath the worn carpet. A motor car drove down the road, then came the clip-clop-rumble of a horse and cart. How much time had passed since I had said goodbye to Nanny Jane? Ten minutes maybe? I would need to be quick.

  I heard muffled voices, and then a door closed quietly. I was expecting a polite, ‘Perhaps you could come back another day,’ or, ‘Can I pass on a message?’ but the young lady reappeared and indicated the corridor behind her: ‘First door on the right,’ she said, and turned back to the letter she was typing. ‘Mind the step down.’

  Mr Pickersgill was browsing the bookshelves beside his desk, his hand moving across the books and files as if he were reading with his fingertips. He was a tall, skinny man, and he wore a creased grey suit that hung shy of his wrists and ankles, giving him the appearance of an overgrown school boy.

  At last he found what he was looking for: ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed and turned to face me. A generous smile spread across his face. His eyes twinkled behind a pair of round spectacles.

  ‘Miss Henrietta Abbott,’ he said, stretching his large, freckled hand across the table. ‘Truman Pickersgill. How d’you do?’

  ‘How d’you do,’ I said, wondering what a grown-up would usually say in such a situation. I added, ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Pickersgill.’

  He smiled again and gestured to a threadbare old chair. I sat down.

  There was an awkward pause during which I realized that, having asked to see him, I really ought to be the first to say something.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ I said.

  ‘It is indeed,’ he agreed, still smiling. ‘I must say, it’s quite a temptation to shut up the office and spend the afternoon pottering in the garden. Now, how can I be of help? I trust all is well with Hope House?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I like it very much.’

  ‘Good. Good . . . Perhaps you know that your cook, Mrs Berry, helps me out with a bit of housework from time to time,’ he went on. ‘She has to
ld me a little about you.’

  I wondered what she had said. Concern must have flashed across my face as he immediately added, ‘About how helpful you have been with baking and so on . . . A dab hand at cake batter, so I hear.’

  I nodded and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t suppose Mrs Berry has mentioned a strange gentleman who has visited Hope House?’

  ‘She has not, but I believe I may have met the gentleman you mean. He paid me a visit this morning.’

  ‘A man with a limp?’

  ‘That’s the fellow.’

  My heart thudded. ‘He has called at our house twice now and I saw him at the seaside too,’ I said. ‘He’s asking a lot of questions.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Pickersgill said. ‘Yes, indeed.’ I noticed his smile had changed. There was something more serious about it now.

  ‘Can I ask who he is, please, and what exactly it is that he wants?’

  He’s Doctor Chilvers, my mind was whispering cruelly. Perhaps he needs to get legal permission from a solicitor to have me locked away . . .

  Mr Pickersgill steepled his fingers and put them to his lips. He made a decision. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Miss Abbott. I’m really not at liberty to answer those questions—’

  ‘Is it to do with me?’ I interrupted, aware that my voice was shaking.

  Mr Pickersgill looked at me strangely. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, nothing to do with you, Miss Abbott.’

  I studied his face. Was he lying?

  ‘I can’t go into any details, I’m afraid, but I can tell you it’s to do with the family that owns Hope House. The Young family. The gentleman wants to get in contact with surviving members of the family.’

  The Young family? I thought immediately of the attic room – A. Young scrawled inside the cover of Moonfleet . . . But what does that have to do with Doctor Chilvers?

  ‘I arranged the Hope House lease with your father on behalf of the Young family,’ Mr Pickersgill continued. He tapped his chest a few times before he spoke again. ‘I manage the property for them, you see. At least, I have done so since I returned from the war. My partner made the arrangements in my absence. Over the last few years, Hope House has been rented out to writers, retired couples and families just like yours. At one point the Catholic Church was interested in turning it into a convent, but . . .’