The Secrets of Drearcliff Grange School

by Kim Newman

  When Amy was older, how would she cope with her insistent Abilities? She envisioned herself trying to keep her shoes on the ground while the voice of Kentish Glory fluttered in her ear, urging her to take off. The clouds could call too, like the sea or the moon or the Purple or Frost’s snowman. Just ask Captain Skylark, the Aviatrix or the Aerial Knights of Avalon. Amy Thomsett might just be the protective colouration of Kentish Glory.

  Was she a girl who acted like a moth or a moth disguised as a girl?

  Could she become dangerous? She had thought of herself swooping to rescue urchins from burning orphanages. Now, she wondered if she might float over high walls and drop incendiary bombs. If more subtle wrongdoing was her lot, she could eavesdrop from above on secret conversations and sell information to the highest bidder. And there was the other side of her Abilities, the one she dreaded practising because it hurt – making things beside herself float or sink. Could she make people come unstuck and get lost in the sky? Lift treasures out of vaults and tug them along as if they were paper kites?

  She didn’t want to be a death’s-head moth, but if the world went Black Only would she have a choice? Such visions terrified her. She drifted in and out of terror-dreams, and was sweaty and sickly in the morning.

  ‘Off your colour, old thing,’ Frecks observed. ‘You should brighten up a bit.’

  Amy hid under bedclothes while Frecks, in her singlet, did her daily arm-swinging, shoulders-back exercises. This rigmarole was supposed to enhance the figure.

  ‘I must, I must, I must improve my bust…’

  Another blasted rhyme. Amy groaned until she could bear it no longer and got up to face another dreary, chilly day as a living ghost.

  One day, Kali was a full Black Skirt too. She and Frecks needed a third for their triad. They took on Rose.

  Beauty might have gone Black for protection against the Hooded Conspiracy, or out of gratitude to Kali. She had thanked both her rescuers… but didn’t know who Kentish Glory was under the mask. By showing her face, Kali positioned herself to take all the credit – though Amy didn’t for a moment believe her friend had intended that.

  Beauty as a Black Skirt was striking. A tide of change surged through the House in imitation. Within days, Desdemona was two-thirds gone. It would have been a worse blackwash, but for the higher incidence of Wychwoodism than in other Houses – girls who would go Black, but couldn’t raise the funds.

  Amy approached Rose outside the dorm, hoping against hope to bring her back to Grey. It was perverse of Beauty to join the movement Bainter so vocally supported. She tried to frame her argument and opened her mouth to speak, but Rose walked past without acknowledging her existence.

  Of course, she didn’t recognise Amy out of her Kentish Glory guise.

  Her loveliness changed character. The gentleness was gone. Black Rose was strong, imperious, commanding, magnificent. Smaller girls followed her, mouths lolling in awe. Triads nodded respect as if she were Rayne herself. Beauty seemed less tragic – not a girl who couldn’t talk, but a girl who refused to talk. Amy hoped Rose was safe now – the Black Skirts should protect her from Bainter, far better than the Moth Club could. But she was disappointed in the girl she had rescued. If this was where Rose went afterwards, what was the point of saving her? Amy was upset with herself for having such a mean, unworthy thought, then with everyone else, for driving her to the point where she let herself down. The poison got everywhere, including into her head.

  Light Fingers took to bunking off lessons with ant-badge teachers. She earned so many absence Infractions the House Captain had her up for a stern talking-to. When her friend came back to the cell, Amy asked Light Fingers what Pelham had to say.

  ‘Typical Ordinary bushwah,’ responded Light Fingers. ‘Letting School down, letting House down, et cetera. Buck up your ways and hold fast to the path of righteousness and whatnot.’

  Light Fingers gave a strong impression that she did not intend to buck up or hold fast. So far as she was concerned, the rest of School was wrong. She was the lone martyr of righteousness.

  Creepily, this reminded Amy of Rayne.

  ‘We have to be ready for a scrap, Amy,’ Light Fingers insisted. ‘With anyone, any gang. Think it through, work it out. Don’t rely too much on Abilities. They don’t make us unbeatable. The Ordinaries are happy to send their pet Unusuals after us. Bloody Blackfist and the like. Dad taught me stage magic is all preparation. So is War. If the Cerberus were set after you, what could you do? If you were pinned to the ground and couldn’t float, how would you get away?’

  Amy was nervous of thinking like that.

  ‘You know what happens to moths who aren’t prepared,’ Light Fingers said, jabbing her finger at Amy’s chest. ‘Stuck through with a pin.’

  Light Fingers stalked off.

  ‘What’s up with Mrs Huffy Cow?’ Frecks asked cheerily. ‘The gin run out again?’

  At least Frecks still talked to Amy… though being with Kali and Rose took up more and more of her time.

  The next day in Chem, Miss Borrodale noted Naisbitt absent. Amy was without a lab partner for an experiment with essential salts. There were no spare Greys to pair her up with, so Fossil had her sit at the back of the room conning the periodic table while the rest of the class made stinks. Kali and Frecks concocted an exemplary explosion. Hoare-Stevens was in the Infirmary with a chest cold, but her lab chum – the deeply Black Peebles Arbuthnot – was permitted to attempt the experiment on her own and even awarded a high mark for her pathetic fizzle. Amy had no doubt she’d be marked down.

  She was annoyed with Light Fingers, but was beginning to see her point. Why attend only to be ignored, passed over or discriminated against? Frecks sympathised in a glassy-eyed, cheerily perfunctory sort of way. Amy had noticed a lot of that lately, but it stung worst from her cell-mate.

  Light Fingers turned up for English Composition with Miss Kaye, but had nothing to say for herself. She plonked down at her desk and dug out her composition book. She asked for a lend of a pen-nib from Frecks, who opened her pencil box and selected an old one she could spare.

  Where did Light Fingers go when she was bunking off? Were other Greys ducking out of Black Skirt-run lessons? Other Unusuals?

  Amy felt isolated. Light Fingers had not only proved her point but unwittingly gone along with the master plan she was complaining about.

  This was getting ridiculous.

  Inchfawn stuck up her hand to ask if the class could sit according to uniform colour rather than register name. Miss Borrodale had set a precedent, reassigning laboratory benches to favour Black Skirts. Miss Kaye shushed the suggestion, declaring herself happy with the arrangement that had served School since its founding.

  An insectile chittering of disapproval started. Miss Kaye raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Miss Bedale wouldn’t let Black Skirts sit together,’ said Inchfawn, loud enough to be heard. ‘Now she’s not in School.’

  ‘That’s quite enough of that,’ said Miss Kaye.

  Her ruling was accepted. For now.

  Light Fingers shrugged in an ‘I told you so’ sort of way.

  Amy felt sicker.

  XII: A Summons to the House Captain’s Study

  WHILE AMY WAS alone in the cell, working on her Book of Moths, Gawky Gifford came to the door. Gawky, a notorious cadger, said she knew something she would share if Amy spared a farthing. Amy paid up and the First told her a letter had been put in her pigeon-hole. Gawky haunted the hallway and knew who received anything. Amy was out of the habit of checking for post, since the service was still irregular.

  Another of Desdemona’s Stuck-in-Greys, Gawky made herself useful for a price. She was saving up for her Black uniform. Amy was dubious about supporting Gifford’s ambition, but the impecunious girl showed the Drearcliff spirit – if only in the way the Slink did School proud during Ascot Opening Week when she stole the Duchess of Cluster’s famous pearls, replacing them with a string of boiled sweets sucked down to the proper size.<
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  Amy tossed Gawky another farthing to fetch the letter. The First had anticipated the commission. She produced the letter from behind her back and retreated. Opening the envelope, Amy found a note from Pelham. She was invited to call on the House Captain at her earliest convenience.

  Pelham had a cell to herself. It was more like a study, with the bed in a curtained alcove. A decent fire kept the room pleasantly toasty. The House Captain sat in a large wicker chair, wearing a red silk dressing gown and smoking a cig in an ivory holder. Her fringe-curls were in presses and her scarlet lipstick made a perfect heart-shape.

  A Russian samovar simmered on rails over the fire. Nancy ‘Poppet’ Dyall, the Second who acted as the House Captain’s bonded servant, served tea and biscuits.

  Poppet might be an Unusual. She seemed uncommonly pretty when you looked straight at her, but unremarkable in retrospect. Amy experimented, glancing at the girl and then away. It was true: when she was in view, Dyall was fascinating, even beguiling… but if Amy looked somewhere else in the room, the impression popped like a soap bubble. Out of Poppet’s company, Amy wouldn’t be able to describe her or draw a picture. What colour was her hair? Was her face oval or round? Was her complexion pale or rosy? Amy wasn’t even sure Dyall showed the same face all the time. What did Dora Paule make of Poppet? Maybe the Second’s true face could only be seen through the prism of the Purple.

  Amy thanked Pelham for the tea, and dunked a finger-biscuit. She left it too long and the biscuit came apart, turning into soggy blobby bits.

  ‘Thanks everso for dropping by, Thomsett,’ said Pelham. ‘Must have you over more often, don’t you know? You’re a fine Desdemona gal, and no question about it. We don’t rabbit on about tradition and achievement, the way other Houses do, but we’re a proud lot, don’t you know? Slow to ire, quick to finish and all. Sorts you’d go into the jungle with. Understand the Walmergrave girl took you under her wing last term. Good egg, that one. Will go far. Know her brother and he’s a bit of all right and no mistake. Rides with the Blankney Hunt. Dashed rogue, but a good seat. Saw him blooded. Anyway, Thomsett, my dear… thought it was time we had a chat-ette. Nothing too formal. About the Naisbitt lass, primarily…’

  Pelham whizzed her hands through the air, indicating that she knew about Light Fingers.

  Pelham was a whip, though she’d never issued an Infraction. She preferred these little talking-tos, and had a decent record in setting girls straight. She’d persuaded Smudge to moderate her tale-spinnng, discouraged Knowles from using her Abilities in an underhand manner and convinced Martine not to elope with a bold mountain climber. But she’d not been able to get through to Light Fingers.

  She must also be smarting that the Frost had got away with Captain Freezing for weeks without her noticing. De Vere and Pelham were best friends. Their uproarious escapades as Fourths were still spoken of in hushed, admiring tones after Lights Out.

  Dyall was suddenly very near Amy, who sat on a stool so Pelham could look down on her. The servant took away her empty cup for refilling. Amy focused hard on her big eyes, small nose and… drew a blank when she was gone back to the fire, face turned away. Poppet’s eyes were huge, she was sure… but what colour? Her hair was long and lustrous, and… nothing. Amy craned around. Now, Dyall was lit by the fire so her eyes and hair were red.

  ‘…you’re great chums with Naisbitt, Thomsett. See if you can’t get her to pull herself together. She’s slipping and that’s not what anyone wants. If you find out what ails her, all the better. Woes about the Ma and Pa are a distinct poss, though she’s not the only Desdemona gal with a parent or two in jug. Poppet’s Papa is in the Mausoleum, don’t you know…’

  Dyall nodded.

  The Mausoleum – pronounced Maws-o-lay-um, for some reason – was the Special Prison. Amy had only heard of it because Light Fingers was worried her parents would be transferred there. It was on Egdon Heath, girded by dark magics and infernal devices. No one ever escaped from the Mausoleum, and precious few were released.

  Who the blazes was Dyall’s father?

  Only the worst Unusuals were sent to the Mausoleum. Mary Mourdur, the Drearcliff Old Girl whose singing voice drove men to kill. She was gagged except for feeding times, then served only by women, who were immune to her death-siren’s song. Valdemar Conquest, whose colossal plan had only been thwarted by the concerted efforts of Scotland Yard, the Splendid Six and Dr Shade. Isidore Persano and his Worm Unknown to Science. Potiphar Quesne, the Mad Magus of Liverpool.

  ‘…anyhow, if you could give your chum a spot of talking-to, bring her round a bit… be much appreciated.’

  Dyall was distracting. It wasn’t just her face. Being around her for more than a minute or two blotted chunks of memory, even of things that had just happened or been said.

  Amy worried she’d not heard half of Pelham’s little chat.

  Still, she got the gist…

  Fixing on Dyall, she worried away at it – who was her father? Conquest, Quesne, Persano… the Worm? Some other unknown Unusual? Possibly even someone called Dyall?

  Then Amy was outside on the landing, not sure whether she’d thanked House Captain for the tea. Her tongue was scalded, so she knew she’d drunk something hot… but couldn’t recall if it was Russian or English, with or without milk.

  The gaps were infuriating and unsettling. Was Pelham immune to Poppet? Or driven completely dotty, but somehow able to present a sane, sensible face to the world, don’t you know and that’s no mistake?

  One thing Amy remembered. Hanging from Pelham’s hat-hook was a black boater.

  Not a good sign.

  XIII: In the Playhouse

  BEFORE SHE COULD administer the prescribed spot of talking-to, Amy had to find Light Fingers. No easy task. These days, her friend was only slightly more often seen than ffolliott-Absent. She was probably still in a mood to boot.

  Amy spent her Breaks seeking admittance to far corners where girls clustered for nefarious purposes. Underground tournaments in dice and cards drew Fifths to the Kitchens, the Herbarium or the Photo Soc’s Darkroom. Promissory notes and negotiable items passed back and forth as fortunes were won or lost. Besides taking bets, Nellie Pugh loaned sums of cash at exorbitant rates to gambling fiends. Wary of raids, the gaming hells were unwelcoming. Poking her head round doors earned Amy cold stares and pellet-peltings, as if she were Snitcher Garland spying for the whips. Warily and wearily, she stuck to her quest. She even floated a little, peeping through the occasional window.

  Other secret places drew other categories of Infractor. Absalom and her disciples – the Ariel Seconds Frensham and Dace – met in the Sewing Room to plot the overthrow of capitalism by embroidering quotations from Marx and Kropotkin on handkerchiefs. Rather improbably, they had become a Black Skirt Triad overnight. Absalom claimed they were practising Trotskyist entrisme, though Amy was disappointed to find them skipping to the same rhyme as the rest of the ants. Phillips of the Fifth sold sweets, make-up and racy literature from her cell in the Tamora dorms. All Phillips’ contraband was smuggled into School by baggy-trousered beaux she cultivated in town. Lately, with the snow, supplies were running low. Sally Nikola’s Arcane Science Circle performed illicit experiments in makeshift laboratories, giving off loud bangs or puffs of foul-smelling, bright-coloured smoke.

  Light Fingers wasn’t in any of these hidey-holes.

  After lunch, Amy tried the Drearcliff Playhouse. Traditional Viola territory, the theatre was now a Black Skirt nest… but Light Fingers knew the building intimately. She might seek sanctuary in the prop storage basements. It was worth a peep under the stage.

  In the foyer, posters for the Mid-Winter Revue depicted Mansfield and Crawford as Scott of the Antarctic and Nanook of the North. The show was called Poles Apart! Judging from the illustration, it featured dancing penguins, the late unlamented Captain Freezing and something like a goggle-eyed cuttlefish exploding out of a husky’s head with musical notes dotted all around. ‘You’ll shiver and shake �
� with merriment! Your teeth will chatter – from laughter! Nurse will be in attendance to sew up any split sides. May not be suitable for Firsts and those of a Nervous Disposition.’

  The auditorium was empty and dark. Amy felt her way down the side-aisle towards the stage. She heard a humming, deep underground, and felt a vibration… as if vast dynamos were whirring in the depths. A light moment came on her. Unable to see the floor, she found her feet weren’t on it. Panic took hold. She staggered through the air, arms flapping… and fell badly, jarring her knees and the heels of her hands. She made a racket, which resounded in the theatre. Her heart raced and she took long moments to overcome her terror.

  She was alone in the big, dark space. But not in the building.

  Her eyes adjusted and she saw a little better. Just in front of the stage was a trapdoor. Amy took hold of the brass ring set in the floor and, lifting with her mind as well as her arms, raised the door a crack. Sound came out of the basements, and a rush of warmth…

  Dum-dum-dee-dum… dumdee-dumdee Dum…

  Ants in your pants… all the way from France.

  Her heart sunk. She wasn’t likely to find Light Fingers under this stage.

  …but she felt compelled to lift the trap further, to see what was going on. She squeezed under the heavy door and took its weight on her shoulders, then went down a flight of steps, lowering it after her with a minimum of noise. Inadequate electric lights were strung over the stairs. The understage area smelled of paint, sawdust, stale make-up and dead flowers.

  Lately, Amy kept her Kentish Glory mask about her at all times. She couldn’t wear the whole uniform under her clothes – though she had thought of it, especially in this weather – but the mask rolled into a soft tube and fit into a customised inside pocket. Pulling her mask on, Amy felt instantly braver.