by Claire Wong
“Not even from Chemistry GCSE? That’s where you study drugs and stuff, right?”
Juliet turned the page and fixed a pink post-it note to it as a bookmark. “Believe it or not, it’s actually the study of chemical elements and compounds. Why are you interested in random drugs all of a sudden?”
“No reason.” Kit shrugged and went to the window. The fog was thinning at last, releasing its hold on Askfeld, though it still pooled over the dark waves far below the cliffs. “S’pose you wanted to make someone ill, or even poison them so they died, what would you use?”
She raised an eyebrow and closed the textbook. “I hope you aren’t plotting anything.”
Only a back-up plan in case I need to save someone’s life one day, Kit thought.
“Course not. But you do know how to, right?” He had played the right card. Juliet did know, and she wanted to tell him what she knew.
“Depends how dramatic you want it to be. For a quick, explosive end, you could use something unstable like caesium – just put it anywhere near water and it blows up. But I’d go for something more subtle. One of the traditional slow-acting poisons, where the victim has a headache for a week or two before dropping down dead. Arsenic’s a classic; they used that a hundred years ago in the old mystery novels. You could put a small amount in someone’s tea each day – it’s tasteless, so they’d never notice. And there are some others that wouldn’t even show up when they do the post-mortem on the body. You could make it look like natural causes, and no one would ever know the truth of what had happened.”
Kit did not know whether to be disturbed at how much thought his sister had already put into this. Then again, there were few topics Juliet had not considered at great length. She didn’t often volunteer an opinion, but you could be pretty certain she had decided on one already. He resolved to keep an eye out for arsenic around the guest house. It occurred to him that one possible reason behind Beth’s illness mystifying doctors and defying conventional treatment might be that she was not strictly ill at all. What if someone was sneaking dangerous substances into her food to make her believe she was unwell? If it was the sort of plot Juliet could supply on the spur of the moment, why not suppose an adult with unlimited time might have the same idea?
One morning, when he returned earlier than the others from breakfast and found that on this rare occasion his mother’s laptop was actually unattended, he took the opportunity to look up the symptoms of arsenic poisoning. The list was long and unsavoury, but he had to admit that so far he had not seen Beth vomiting or convulsing. There must be plenty of other poisons Juliet had not mentioned though, so he could not completely rule out the possibility that her condition was the result of something she had consumed. It would explain why the doctors could not cure her. Remembering his earlier question, he also looked up Nefopam, which turned out to be generally used for pain relief, but on further reading he did find that it might technically be possible to kill someone by feeding them too much of it, particularly if they had an existing cardiac condition. He could not think of a subtle way to ask Beth if her heart was healthy.
That night, Kit’s mind was too much of a whirl to fall asleep quickly, and when he finally did, he dreamed that a cackling Morgan le Fay stalked the corridors of Askfeld, trailing a hooded black cloak over the swept floor and bearing a chalice laced with arsenic. He woke, shaking, in the early hours of the morning, surprised to find the guest house so silent when his nightmares had been deafening with hideous laughter. Though only the faintest of thin lights was visible through the curtains, he found that he did not want to go back to sleep immediately, so he turned on his bedside lamp and opened a comic book. He read until it was time to get up, and though Catherine asked him more than once over breakfast why he was yawning so much, he did not speak a word of his nightmare to anyone. A hero was meant to be brave and ready to face anything. What use was he to anyone if he was fixated with fear even while he slept?
The fog cleared in the end, fading away so that the horizon became visible once again. Birds returned in greater numbers to the coastline and fished in the deep waters or scavenged along the shore for debris left by ramblers and tourists. Determined though he was to unmask Sean’s true purpose, Kit was relieved to have an opportunity to step away from all these schemes and think about something that made him less anxious. He reminded Bert that they had agreed to look for the albatross, and suggested they had better go today, in case the fog should return soon.
“It’s a fair old walk. We’d best get started.” Bert hummed to himself as he tied up the laces of his walking boots and pulled on a waterproof coat. “Do you need to tell anyone where you’re going before we set out?”
Kit had left his mother trawling through a report that had been written in her absence and which apparently needed major revisions, while Juliet pored over the physics syllabus she would be studying next year.
“I don’t think they’ll notice I’m gone until I get back.”
They set out together from Askfeld towards the coastal path, where the verges grew deep with hogweed and yarrow. As they walked, Bert mused aloud about his summer.
“It’s not been such a bad trip, you know. Refreshing to be somewhere I’m not known, and to forget about all the problems at work for a while. I imagine it’s similar for you, not having to think about school for a few weeks. I’ve managed to photograph some kittiwakes. And I saw dozens of puffins at their nesting site. Do you know what the Latin name for a puffin is?”
Kit stared at Bert blankly. “Why would I know the Latin name for anything?”
“Fair question. In my day we used to have to learn it at school, but that was a very long time ago. Can’t remember much grammar or anything, beyond amo, amas, amat and all that, but I’m not bad on the scientific names of birds. And a puffin is fratercula, which means ‘little brother’. I’ve always liked that. Sounds friendly, don’t you think?”
Kit wondered what would make a bird comparable to a younger brother, and whether he should feel any affinity towards puffins because of it. Juliet would have said something rude at this point, about how it must mean puffins were irritating and noisy.
“What about albatrosses? Do they have a scientific name?”
“They do, but there are lots of varieties of albatross, and each species has a different one.”
“What kind will our albatross be?”
“Well, that’s hard to say. But there have been sightings of a black-browed albatross in north Scotland. He’s an old bird now, and they say he comes back every summer. One of the mollymawk group of albatrosses – isn’t that a wonderful word, mollymawk? His scientific name is thalassarche melanophris, which is a bit more of a mouthful, but birdwatchers just call him Albert.”
“Albert?”
“Bit easier to say, isn’t it? I suppose it’s meant to be a joke, too: Albert – albatross.” The birdwatcher was quiet for a few moments. “They really are the most remarkable creatures. So graceful, with a wingspan of more than twice my height – it’s hard to even imagine! And many of them will fly all the way around the world in their lifetime.”
“So they’re explorers?”
“Exactly. And they’ve seen more of the planet than most other animals – or people, I imagine – ever will.” Bert paused. “Remind me, who was it who told you about this possible sighting? Someone local, I suppose?”
Kit’s face flushed as he floundered for an answer that would not involve giving away the secret of the map. It still felt like something sacred that was not his to discuss with others. He did not like the idea of everyone in Askfeld pouring into Beth’s room to inspect the map and offer their own contributions. In part, he feared his own efforts would be less appreciated then. There was a limit to how many heroes a story should have.
“Um, yeah, something like that. A local who knows the area.” He needed to change the subject quickly. “Do you think he’s lonely? If all the other albatrosses are hundreds of miles away, I mean.”
; At this deflection, there was the flickering of an awkward pause. Before it could take hold, however, Bert had already begun to answer the question, to Kit’s relief.
“Well, they do tend to be solitary birds, you know. Something rather noble about it in a way, the lone wanderer flying over the ocean, don’t you think?”
“I really hope we see one.” Kit looked out at the sea, half hoping to spot an albatross soaring by at that very moment, even though he knew they were still some way from the site Beth had marked on her map.
“Well, as I said before, it is highly unlikely,” said Bert, but Kit thought he sounded more optimistic than earlier. “All the same, it is fun to imagine what they’d say at the British Ornithologists’ Union if I told them I’d seen one. I can just picture the looks on their faces.”
They had crossed the field between Askfeld and the cliff edge now, and came next to a copse of dark gnarled trees on a steep downward slope towards the sea. The coastal path veered inland around them.
“What’s that noise?” Kit asked. Strange bangs and scraping sounds were coming from somewhere between the trees. Bert seemed not to have noticed and uttered a bewildered “Eh?” as Kit slipped from the path to investigate.
It was a wooden sound, percussive and repetitive. He thought of asking Bert whether a woodpecker could drum against a tree trunk loudly enough for this, but the birdwatcher was lagging too far behind, so Kit went on to find out for himself. It reminded him of when his dad had spent a whole weekend building a coffee table, and he had listened to its construction through the kitchen door.
There was someone there. He had spied a glimpse of blue fabric before it disappeared behind the twisted tree trunks. Kit stopped. Why would anyone be hiding out here? Juliet had reacted so strongly to his theory that the Fisher family was on the run from someone. What if that someone was hiding out here to watch them?
Fuelled by the thought that his mother and sister were at the guest house, ignorant of any threat and unprepared for the danger they were in, he moved closer to get a better look. It was an adult, he could tell, though not an especially tall one, who was brandishing some heavy metallic implement. He took a tentative step forward for a closer look, and recognized the figure.
“Maddie?”
The noise stopped. Maddie Morley spun round in the clearing.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded so angrily that for a moment Kit believed he had broken some rule in being out here. But no, he was not trespassing on anyone’s land, except possibly Sean and Beth’s, and that was allowed.
“What are you doing with that?”
She held a hammer in her right hand, and a long crooked nail in her left. Behind her was the object that had absorbed her attention. It was an old wooden rowing boat, propped up on its side. The chipped grey paintwork was stained with rust-orange patches around the nails that held it together. It looked as if it had not been seaworthy for a long time. So this was why she had asked about buying tools.
Bert caught up with Kit. “Hello there, Maddie. So this is what you’ve been up to, is it? A bit of salvage work.”
He said it brightly, but Maddie must have imagined a note of accusation in his tone, because she responded, “I’m not doing any harm or stealing anyone’s property. I found it like this.”
“Never doubted that for a second.”
“I’ve asked around and nobody has laid claim to it. So no one can complain if I fix it up, can they?”
Bert and Kit agreed that it was hard to see how anyone would object to it. Maddie threw down the crooked nail and turned her attention to one of the others, still rusting in the stern of the boat. She set about levering it out of the woodwork.
“What are you going to do with it, when you’ve fixed it?” asked Kit.
“Do? What does it matter what I do with it? Why do you imagine things are only valuable if they are useful for something? Can’t a boat just be what it is, and that’s enough?” Maddie did not look round at them, but attacked the nail with furious energy. The hammer slipped and caught her hand; she jumped back and cried out a syllable that she quickly rearticulated to be suitable for Kit’s ears.
Kit wondered what level of disrepair marked the line between a disused boat and mere driftwood, but knew somehow that this question would make Maddie even angrier.
“If you must know,” she paused, red-faced and slightly breathless from the work, “I may even finish my pilgrimage by boat. Whitby Abbey is right on the sea, after all.”
“Right. Well. I suppose we’d best leave you to it. Come on, Kit, let’s not disturb Maddie any longer.”
Bert strode away, back up the slope, and Kit, unable to think of a question that was safe to ask, jogged after him. Up they went, through the trees and dark gorse needles.
“Do you think she’d actually do it, Bert? Mend a boat and go to sea in it?” He wasn’t sure it was the sort of thing people actually did outside of books. If it was, then he wished he’d found the boat first.
Bert said “Hmm” in a way that sounded knowing and yet non-committal all at once. “I can’t say I’ve figured out Maddie Morley well enough to know what she might do. But I don’t see that bit of flotsam becoming seaworthy any time soon. Do you?”
“It can’t be flotsam.”
“What’s that?”
“It isn’t flotsam,” Kit explained. “It has to be floating in the sea to be flotsam. Or thrown overboard to be jetsam. And you just said you didn’t think the boat would float anyway. I read about it once.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least. I have students who aren’t as widely read as you, and they’ve had a decade’s head start. Have you ever thought of becoming an academic researcher?”
Kit answered that he had not. He still was not quite sure what an academic researcher did. Bert did talk occasionally about teaching students, but he seemed to spend a lot of time reading the newspaper and looking for interesting wildlife. They picked up the pace, striding briskly along the cliffs. Their footfall shook the clumps of pink thrift flowers, huddled in gaps between rocks.
“Let’s have a look at that map again,” said Bert.
Kit handed over the map he had borrowed from the reception desk. Or did it count as stealing if you didn’t technically ask permission first? Either way, he planned to return it as soon as they got back, before Sean noticed it was missing. He had even been sure to write on it in pencil, so they could erase the arrows pointing out the spot Beth had circled next to a question mark.
“Not far now, by the look of it. Is that definitely the place your friend saw it? We should be able to get down to the foot of the cliffs this way. That will be easier than craning over the edge from the top to see if anything is nesting there. I don’t fancy falling off into the sea. Do you?”
Bert had no difficulty reading the map, even though it was riddled with lines of various weights and colours that signified roads or altitude or boundaries. He found a narrow path that led down from the cliff top and, to Kit’s relief, walked ahead on it, making it easy to follow and find the best footholds. When they reached the rocky shoreline, he gave the map back to Kit and took a pair of binoculars out of his rucksack.
The water was a quiet, brooding grey, a glassy mirror to the heavy clouds that had gathered over it. He could almost imagine it was an entirely different sea to the one he had seen from the lookout point or Scar Bay. Beth was right: it had different moods depending on the day. Today’s was subdued but with disgruntled depths that grumbled to themselves further out from the shore.
“There’s so much more air round here.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“The air,” Kit repeated, but he felt that he had not explained himself properly. “It’s so… wide. You know, how there’s no buildings stretching up into the sky and breaking the view. It feels” – he spread his arms out on either side – “open.”
He had not done justice to the feeling. He wanted to run and jump, simply to make the most of all this uninhabi
ted space between grass and sky. And yet its vastness made him aware of how small he was, and that in turn made him want to stay very still and breathe in how huge the world was becoming.
“I forget how different life is for children growing up in cities.” Bert acted as if he had understood, but this prosaic response jarred against whatever it was Kit had been trying to describe. “Now then, let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Kit watched as Bert scanned the cliff face. A cluster of white shapes perched about halfway up the earthy brown wall of rock, but based on the birdwatcher’s measured response, he guessed they were not albatrosses.
Sure enough, a few moments later he heard Bert mutter to himself, “Pair of gannets there. And the usual herring gulls.” The birdwatcher continued to check and identify aloud the different birds sitting on the rocky ledges.
Kit meanwhile turned his back to the cliffs and studied the skyline instead. A few angular silhouettes of gulls were flying in from the sea, but even without knowing what they were, he could tell they were too small. Then suddenly he spotted a white shape in the distance, broad-winged and soaring over the waves.
“Bert! What’s that, over there?” He jumped and pointed excitedly. Bert swung round and stared at it.
“Hmm,” he said, and raised the binoculars to his eyes. Kit could hardly keep still with the suspense of watching him and waiting for an answer. “A large bird, certainly… still quite far away… hard to tell… but the wingspan is wide and the body shape is the right kind. Colouring seems consistent. Bigger than a kittiwake, at least.”
“Is it an albatross? It is, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t like to say for sure, but from here I’d go so far as to say that there’s a slim possibility it could be.”
Kit screeched with triumph. He had found it! Bert did not seem to share his enthusiasm yet, but he was smiling at least.