‘Here’s the two-headed chicken,’ said Strideforth. A few people were clustered around a cage, poking at a small creature that huddled inside. The chicken looked very dejected. Its four eyes were closed. Some of its feathers were missing, and its skin was as pale as milk. Hortense clucked at it, and it lifted one of its heads listlessly and made a sad little croak.
A light flickered. People were clustered into an alcove where another young man with dull eyes and several missing teeth was operating the magic lantern, shining the images onto the canvas wall of the tent. The magic lantern looked like a little tin temple. It emitted clicks and hisses and a strong smell of scorched metal. The young man pushed the glass slides into it, one at a time, and jiggled the levers to make the images move.
‘Come on,’ said Strideforth. He pulled Hortense away from the sad chicken, and they pushed their way in. The light flickered. A ship rose and fell on the waves of a stormy sea. A lady’s head changed into the head of a dog, then a skull, then a monster. A man chased a butterfly and caught it in his hat. Two children rode on a seesaw, up and down. Three blackbirds broke out of a pie and flew away.
Click, click, click. The scenes followed one another. A train crossed a canyon, smoke puffing from its funnel, and then teetered and fell from the bridge. Some of the audience gasped. A red fire consumed a building. Someone screamed. Stella stood on tiptoe to see, but taller people crowded in around her, blocking her view with their arms and backs, smelling of wet wool and vegetables. In the darkness, she lost sight of Strideforth and Hortense. She was bumped and shoved and nearly lost her balance. Someone trod heavily on her foot, and she squeaked at the sudden stabbing pain, but her voice was lost amongst the shrieks of the audience.
Click, click, click. The light flickered, yellow and orange and red. There were more gasps and screams.
Stella struggled back through the crowd. She took a breath, looked around, saw daylight filtering in and heard the wheezing, clanking music of the barrel organ. She limped towards the entrance, pushed aside the canvas curtain and hobbled outside.
Stella spied a wooden crate beside the dentist’s wagon, and she went over and sat down on it. She unlaced her boot, pulled off her stocking and inspected her foot. It was red and bruised and painful. She leaned back against the wagon and rubbed her foot as she waited for Strideforth and Hortense to come out of the tent.
People were milling around, talking and laughing. The strings of flags flapped in the drizzling rain, and the music from the barrel organ clanked and jolted along.
Mr Flint stood nearby, surrounded by a group of children. He beckoned them closer and suddenly flipped open his coat. ‘Buy a top? Buy a whistle? Threepence, fourpence apiece,’ he said. Attached to the lining of his coat were several rows of painted wooden tops and shiny tin whistles.
Out of the corner of her eye, Stella saw something hovering at the edge of the group of children. When she looked at it directly, it disappeared. A few moments later, she saw it again, but it vanished as she turned her head.
It happened so quickly that she had almost convinced herself that she had imagined it when she saw it a third time, moving towards her through the crowd. It shimmered at the edge of her vision, about the size of a child, as pale as smoke and almost invisible. Nobody else seemed to notice it as it drifted closer to where she was sitting and hovered, several yards away, almost as if it were watching her. Then it turned and sped away across the green.
Stella pulled on her stocking and shoved her foot into her boot, without stopping to lace it up. She limped after the pale shape as quickly as she could. It darted away from her towards the shops. It was difficult to follow, wavering and shifting like breath on a cold morning. Several times it vanished altogether and appeared again, further along the street. Stella hobbled after it, past the forge and the post office, stumbling over the cobblestones. Outside the grocer’s, she lost sight of it. She leaned against a lamp-post to catch her breath and looked up and down the street.
Somewhere, a bell jangled.
Stella recognised the sound. She hobbled past the ironmonger’s and reached the alleyway, just in time to see the door of the sweetshop close.
Cautiously, she crept along the alley and peered in through the rippled glass of the window. Something moved. A face swam into sight behind the sweet jars. A pale face with wide, startled eyes. Stella gasped before she realised it was her own reflection, distorted by the rippled glass and the greenish flickering light. She put her hand on the window, and on the other side of the glass, her reflection reached towards her.
Suddenly, an angry voice came from inside the shop. An old woman’s voice. Stella jumped back from the window. Her reflection disappeared.
‘Where’ve you been? Outside, flitting about? Stay hid, Tick. I told you. Stay inside. Stay hid.’ A small voice answered and the old woman snapped, ‘None of that.’ The door handle rattled and the bell jangled again as the door was flung open.
Frightened, Stella took two steps away from the window, but there was no time to run. She wanted to hide. She felt herself begin to fade. Her head swam as she dissolved into shadow and disappeared.
Mrs Spindleweed stood on the step, glaring. ‘Who’s there? Creeping around. Spying and prying. I know you’re there. Who is it? Who?’
Invisible, Stella stood as still as a stone, her heart beating in her ears.
Mrs Spindleweed tilted her head, listening. Her strange yellow eyes scanned the alleyway. Stella held her breath. For a moment, she was sure Mrs Spindleweed had seen her. Then there was a clattering noise upstairs in the sweetshop. Mrs Spindleweed blinked and muttered something to herself. She went back into the shop, slamming the door. Footsteps clumped up the stairs. After a minute, an owl hooted overhead.
Stella took a deep breath, turned away and limped back along the alley to the street, as quickly as she could. She felt herself begin to appear again. It was a dizzying, prickling sensation. She shivered and pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat.
As she turned into the street, a figure stepped out in front of her. Stella gasped. It was Mr Flint, the dentist. She stumbled and nearly fell. His hand darted out and caught her arm.
‘Careful there, cully,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t you fret, young lady. Don’t you fret.’ His fingers tightened on her arm. His green eyes glittered. ‘You’re all of a fluster. What frightened you?’
‘N-nothing,’ she stammered. Had he been watching her? Had he seen her disappear?
‘Shaking like a leaf, you are, cully.’ He smiled. His gaze was very alert. ‘What did you see? Something fearsome?’
‘No. It was nothing.’ She looked over her shoulder. The alley was empty. She said, ‘An owl. It was just an owl.’
‘A hoolet.’ Mr Flint nodded. ‘Such as might startle anyone on a dark afternoon, if come across unexpected like.’ He pulled her closer. His breath smelled of cloves and tobacco. ‘Now, cully. I’ve been hearing whispers and rumours from hereabouts. A monster of some description. I’m after getting my grabblers on it. A nice curiosity that would make. Very nice indeed. What do you know about that?’
Stella said, ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘No? Well, if you clap your peepers on it, you tip me the wink. I’ll make it worth your while, cully. My word on it.’ Stella tried to pull away from his grasp. He smiled and his fingers tightened on her arm once more. ‘Now, don’t go dashing away like that, cully. How are your teeth? Any little aches? Any little niggles?’ He pulled the long pair of pliers from his pocket and snapped its jaws. Click, click.
Stella shook her head.
‘Quick as a wink. You won’t even know it’s gone.
I give you my word.’ He snapped the pliers again. Click, click.
‘N-no —’ stammered Stella.
‘You won’t feel a thing. Not a snicket.’
‘No.’ She pulled her arm free. ‘No. I’m sorry. I-I have to go.’
Mr Flint gave he
r a bow, without taking his eyes from her face. ‘Well, good afternoon to you then, young lady.’ He slipped the pliers back into his pocket.
Stella hurried away along the street. She looked behind for a moment. He was watching her. The teeth around his hat gleamed. She saw him take something small and white from his waistcoat pocket and push it into his ear.
Sixteen
Strideforth and Hortense were waiting for her beside the tent, sheltering under a tree.
‘There you are,’ said Strideforth, grinning. ‘Where did you go? We thought you were lost. You’re limping. What happened?’
‘Someone stood on my foot in the dark,’ said Stella. ‘And I saw — I don’t know what I saw.’ She remembered Jem saying Mrs Spindleweed had an invisible thing in the sweetshop to run errands for her. A familiar. Had the wispy, invisible shape been a familiar? It seemed very unlikely. And she was not going to tell Strideforth that she might have seen a familiar. She knew what he would think about that. ‘I bumped into Mr Flint,’ she said. ‘He was talking about the monster. He wants to catch it.’
‘There’s no such thing, that is certain,’ said Strideforth. ‘Is your foot all right? Does it hurt?’
‘Only a bit.’ She crouched to tie her bootlace. Her fingers were trembling.
‘Did you see the magic lantern and everything? Did you see the train wreck? And the fire? We watched it three times through. A girl fainted dead away and they carried her outside. It was very interesting.’ He sighed happily. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look —’
Stella stood up and took a breath. She said, ‘Yes. Yes. I’m quite well.’
‘It will be dark soon,’ said Strideforth. He squinted up at the sky. ‘And it’s raining. We should go. Can you walk, do you think?’
They went along the street. People hurried past, muffled in their coats, heads bent against the rain. Some of the shopkeepers had lit their lamps, and others were already putting up their shutters.
The rain was becoming heavier. Grey clouds were piling up overhead. As they left the village, there was a rumble of thunder. Stella hugged her coat around herself and hobbled on as well as she could, slipping and stumbling. She stopped to catch her breath and glanced back. A faint light glimmered in the window of a farmhouse, and on the lane behind, a distant figure was hurrying home before dark.
Stella limped on, shivering in the cold rain. The trees in the hedgerows creaked in the wind. In the dusk, Boggart Wood was no more than an indistinct shadow. She felt the back of her neck prickle, looked behind and saw the figure again. She stopped and shielded her eyes, but in the rain and the fading light, she could see only a pale, flickering shape.
‘Who is that?’ she asked.
Strideforth turned around. ‘There is nobody,’ he said.
Hortense looked and shrugged and shook her head.
Stella blinked. The figure had gone.
She saw something move, but it was just an owl swooping silently across the fields.
They went on.
Stella looked back over her shoulder several times, but the lane behind remained empty.
By the time they reached Wormwood Mire, the rain was pelting down. Stella was cold and shivering, and her bruised foot hurt with a sharp, stabbing pain. Mrs Burdock was watching for them. She came out of the gatehouse and unlocked the tall iron gate. ‘What time do you call this?’ she said, frowning as she followed them down the drive.
‘We’re sorry, Mrs Burdock,’ said Strideforth and Stella together.
‘As much use as jackdaws in the junket, you are. I’ve got better things to do than come out in the wet like this. Did you see that boy in the village?’
‘Jem? No,’ said Strideforth.
‘Where’s he got to then? He’ll be slummocking about, the lazy lump. I’ll knock some sense into his head when he turns up, I will.’ She glared at them. ‘Get yourselves safe inside now. It’s near on dark.’ She turned and stomped back to close the gate.
‘Poor Jem,’ said Stella, as they hurried down the drive towards the house.
In the kitchen, the lamps were lit, the heating pipes hissed and a bright fire crackled in the range. Henry flapped over from the mantelpiece and landed on Hortense’s head. He shrieked several Latin words into her face, making her giggle.
Miss Araminter sat at the table. She had cut open a seedpod from the strangler vine and extracted some seeds, as shiny and black as ebony beads. She was examining them through a microscope. She looked up and smiled vaguely at them. ‘Good evening, my dears. Did you have a pleasant afternoon?’
‘We saw the magic lantern,’ said Strideforth, as they took off their dripping coats and hats and hung them up. ‘And an Egyptian mummy and a two-headed chicken and a mermaid, but that was not real, I think. We saw the dentist pull out a tooth. It was very interesting. But Stella’s foot is hurt. Somebody stepped on it.’
‘Oh, how unfortunate. Let me see.’ Miss Araminter propelled Stella into a comfortable armchair beside the range, gently took off her boot and stocking and inspected her foot. ‘A rather nasty bruise, I’m afraid, my dear.’ She wrapped her own shawl around Stella’s shoulders and gave her a pat. ‘Stay there.’ She lit the lantern and pulled on her cape and hat. ‘It is rather cold this evening. Strideforth, perhaps you would make cocoa for supper? I will return directly.’ She picked up her umbrella and went out into the garden.
Strideforth filled the kettle and put it on the range. He pushed the bread into the slicing machine and made a pile of raggedy jam sandwiches. He opened a tin of mackerel for Henry.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asked Stella, as he passed her a cup of hot cocoa and a sandwich.
‘Thank you.’ She took a sip of cocoa, and then poked her bruised foot with her finger. ‘A bit.’
They were finishing their supper when Miss Araminter returned. ‘Henbane, comfrey and wormwood,’ she said, striding into the kitchen with a bundle of dripping plants under her arm. ‘Marvellous for inflammation. And look, my dear — Brazilian fever tree.’ She brandished a long, trailing stem with several fleshy, yellowish leaves. ‘It will be rather interesting to see its effect, don’t you agree?’
Stella nodded rather doubtfully.
‘Splendid,’ said Miss Araminter. ‘I will make a poultice.’ She chopped up the plants and put them in a pot of water on the range. When it boiled, filling the kitchen with a strong-smelling steam, she mixed it into a green paste, added some oil from the tin of mackerel and spread it onto Stella’s injured foot. It was warm and smelled of wet gardens and fish. Miss Araminter wrapped a clean handkerchief around it as a bandage. ‘There.’ She pinned it neatly in place and gave Stella’s foot a pat.
‘Thank you,’ said Stella.
Miss Araminter smiled as she wrote something in her notebook. ‘An early night for you then, my dear.’ She helped her up. ‘Do you need assistance getting upstairs? Does it hurt at all?’
Stella wriggled her toes. ‘It feels a bit better,’ she said.
‘Marvellous,’ said Miss Araminter, and made another note. ‘It should be as good as new in the morning.’
Stella said goodnight, took a candle and went up to bed. She used the lavatory quickly. The wet, mossy walls glinted in the candlelight. She pulled the chain and jumped away from the splashing water. As she limped along the dark passage towards the stairs, an icy gust made her shiver. Outside, rain pelted down. The wind sent something clattering across the yard.
Something moved. A pale shape seemed to scamper up the narrow stairs that led to the bedrooms.
‘Strideforth?’ Stella called. There was no answer. She peered up into the darkness. The wavering candlelight made the shadows flicker. She climbed the stairs cautiously. As she reached the top, there was a flash of lightning, and she thought she saw something dart into a room at the end of the winding passage.
‘Who’s there?’ she asked, her voice faltering.
She tiptoed along the passage. She hesitated, her trembling fingers on the door handle, heart hammeri
ng. Thunder rumbled.
‘Come on,’ she whispered to Letty, and took a breath and pushed the door open.
It was an empty bedroom. Whitewashed walls, a rusty bed frame and a broken chair. She looked behind the door and under the bed. Nothing but cobwebs and dust.
Stella let out a shaky breath. She was imagining things in the shadows. Of course old houses were full of draughts and creaks and other strange noises. No need to be so nervous.
She closed the door and went back along the passage to her own bedroom. The window had blown open and the rain was coming in. Outside, an owl hooted. Stella closed the window, pushed the latch across and drew the curtains, shutting out the dark. She wound up the musical box and opened the lid. Humming along to the tinkling, whispering tune, she propped the little photograph against the mirror. The three tiny faces stared at her, wide-eyed. She patted the little doll with her finger, then opened Wilberforce Montgomery’s diary, so she could read it as she got ready for bed. He was in Madagascar, travelling through forests full of bottle-shaped trees, meeting lemurs and chameleons and other strange creatures. While pic-nicking on the mountainside, I encountered an Elephant Bird, full ten feet tall. It purloined my Sandwich, and made off into the forest with Raucous Cries.
Stella changed into her nightgown, picked up her hairbrush, parted her hair and began to brush it. Something scratched her forehead. It was a sharp pain, like the prick of a needle. A little thorn was stuck in amongst the bristles of the brush. She picked it out carefully and examined it in the light of the candle. It was like the one she had found in her boot, curved like the claw of a bird, black and needle-sharp.
She inspected her forehead in the mirror and saw a tiny scratch above her eye and a speck of blood.
Wormwood Mire Page 10
