by Judith Eagle
After they’d said goodbye – with much kissing and hugging and promises to come back the next day – Peter and Clara made for Sister’s office as promised. The door was ajar and they were just about to go in when they heard low voices.
‘The results came back yesterday. Apparently traces of poison were found in her blood!’
‘No!’
‘Yes! Pathology think she must have been ingesting small amounts over a long time. It was barely traceable.’
‘Do the police know?’
‘Yes. They’re going to come in and talk to her today or tomorrow. Did you see the grandson? Lovely little thing … mind you, don’t you think Elsa looks far too young to be a grandmother?’
Clara turned to look at Peter, stricken. But he had already gone, the swing doors to the ward swooshing shut behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Where are you going?’ shouted Clara. Peter was ahead of her, haring down the corridor and he didn’t stop, so Clara had no choice but to follow.
Outside, Peter finally paused by the ambulances and waited for Clara to catch up.
‘Poison!’ he said. ‘Who would poison Granny?’
Clara had absolutely no idea.
‘Has she got any enemies?’ she asked.
‘No!’ Peter said. ‘Everyone likes her. It must be a mistake. The doctors must have got her mixed up with someone else.’
‘At least she’s getting better now,’ said Clara (who doubted very much that the doctors had got Elsa mixed up with someone else). ‘She’s going to be all right Peter, which means you’ll be all right. When she’s well, everything will be back to normal.’
But despite her reassuring words, Clara felt peculiarly torn. Of course she wanted Elsa to be well and for Peter to be happy. But that would also mean he wouldn’t need her any more. He and Granny would be back in their flat living happily ever after and she would still be all on her own. The thought was like a black gaping hole, a giant chasm, down which she hardly dared look.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Peter. He took a big breath, in and out, and laughed a shaky laugh. ‘She’s going to be OK and that’s all that matters. So … shall we go to the Royal Opera House?’
* * *
They caught the number three to Charing Cross and made their way through Covent Garden to the Opera House. They hurried along, heads down and collars up, just in case Jackson Smith Esq. really was following them.
Cutting through the debris of the market square, Peter kicked a rotten cabbage ahead of him like a football. The market had finished hours ago but there were still a few porters about, wheeling back their empty barrows. A light rain washed the cobbled streets and the smell of ripe fruit and flowers filled the air.
Any other day, Clara would have been enchanted. But as they got closer to their destination, the excitement she had felt yesterday at Colindale turned to uncertainty and her stomach clenched tight. It was perfectly probable that the present-day Kirov dancers hadn’t even heard of Sergei Ivanov. Worse, what if they had heard of him but the mere mention of his name made their eyes cloud over and their faces fall? For all she knew, he could be an Uncle sort of person.
Uncle had expressly told her that her father didn’t even know she existed. Perhaps, she thought as the knot in her stomach tightened a little bit more, he didn’t want to know of her existence.
At last they rounded the corner into Bow Street and there was the Royal Opera House in all its magnificence.
They walked past the main entrance and turned left into Floral Street. Half way down they stopped outside a grubby-looking door. It reminded Clara of the back entrance to the Metropole in Leeds. ‘Stage door,’ said Peter, pushing it open.
Inside, the air seemed to be damper and chillier than it had been outside. A single electric light bulb illuminated a concrete floor and bare brick walls. Ahead of them a flight of stone steps disappeared into murky gloom. To the left was a counter. Behind the counter, in an impossibly small space, a cupboard almost, sat a jowly man with a downturned mouth. His small eyes glittered meanly at them as they approached.
‘You can’t come in here,’ he barked. ‘Be off with ya!’
How could he tell them to be off if he didn’t even know what they wanted?
‘Sorry to bother you—’ started Clara.
‘Don’t waste your breath ’cause you are bothering me. You’re not in the Company and if you’re not in the Company you’re not allowed in here.’ The man paused to have a long, spluttery cough into his handkerchief. ‘Specially not kids.’
The knot twisted in Clara’s stomach. But she wasn’t afraid of him. She’d had years of practice with Uncle glowering at her from his study chair.
‘Just because we’re children, doesn’t mean you can boss us about,’ she said. ‘We wondered if we can speak to someone in the Kirov Ballet Company. We’ve a very important question to ask.’
‘A very important question to ask!’ mimicked the man. ‘No, you can’t.’
‘You can’t just say no!’ said Peter.
‘I can and I will. I’m the stage doorman. The gatekeeper to this place,’ said the man, puffing out his chest so that he appeared to fill the entire cubbyhole. ‘When you step through that door, if you’re not in the Company you’re the enemy.’
‘We’re not your enemy!’ protested Peter. ‘We only came to ask—’
‘They’re in rehearsal and then they’ve got the matinee and then the evening performance. So no.’ The man clamped his mouth tight shut as though that were an end to it.
‘Can we at least leave a message?’ Clara tried again.
‘A message to who?’ The door had swung open and a man swept across the threshold in a kind of glittering whirl. The cramped, gloomy space lit up and a vibration seemed to fill the air. The new arrival looked extraordinary: cat-like with long shaggy hair and a fur coat that touched the floor. He wore huge dark glasses perched above astonishingly hollow cheeks. Now he removed them with a flourish and regarded them with an intensely dark-eyed stare.
He looked, thought Clara, like a film star.
‘Mr Nureyev!’ Peter was staring at the man in unconcealed wonder. Clara noticed he was doing something, a sort of scraping motion, that might be perceived as a bow.
‘Are you Rudolf?’ asked Clara. Was this Peter’s hero? No wonder Peter had gone red, then white, then red again.
‘Mister, Clara!’ hissed Peter.
‘Rudolf is fine,’ said the man graciously. ‘I’m on my way up to see the Company. Did I hear you say you want to get a message to someone?’ He had started to mount the steps that disappeared into the gloom. Clara knew she had to be quick. Peter still had his mouth open.
‘We wondered if anyone knows anything about a dancer called Sergei Ivanov …’ she began.
Mr Nureyev stopped. Turned round. Came back down. ‘Sergei? Of course! He is dancing tonight! My poor tormented protégé.’
‘He’s actually here?’ Clara couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.
‘First time in twelve years they’ve been allowed out of the mother country. So what is this message?’
Peter had overcome his paralysis and had already taken a scrap of paper and a stubby pencil out of his pocket, and was furiously scribbling a note. ‘OK?’ he said to Clara.
She took it, her heart in her mouth and scanned the words.
Clara folded the note and passed it to Rudolf. She could hardly believe she might be so close to solving the mystery about her own life.
‘You know, he brings true tragedy to the role,’ Rudolf said as he tucked the note in his pocket.
‘Tragedy?’ echoed Clara. The man was mesmerising. She almost felt as though she was falling, falling into the fathomless depths of his eyes.
‘He never got over the death of his girlfriend …’
‘Christobel?’ breathed Clara.
‘Ah – you’ve heard the story. Such promise, such talent, and it all went to utter waste. The rumour … should I sh
are the rumour? Yes, I will, it was a long time ago … The rumour in the Company is that she was poisoned …’
‘Poisoned?’ Clara gasped. Peter spun round to look at her, horror etched across his face.
But Rudolf seemed unaware of the impact of his words and was already leaping gracefully up the stairs. ‘Sergei is dancing this afternoon and this evening,’ he called back. ‘I shall give him your note and tell him to meet you here after curtain-down, tonight at 11 p.m!’ And in a last dramatic swirl, he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They walked back down Floral Street in a daze. Clara’s head was a grey muddle. It was hard to make sense of what she had just heard. Her mother might have been poisoned. Did that mean she had been murdered? Even Peter, who had come face to face with his hero of all time, was deathly quiet as he absorbed it all. ‘Clara, that’s two poisonings we’ve heard about in one day …’
But Clara had jolted to a stop. She was staring at a photographic display splashed across the walls of the Opera House. ‘Great ballerinas past and present’ was the headline.
‘Peter, look!’ She felt as if an icy hand had grabbed hold of her. A terrific shiver slithered up and down her spine. A familiar face stared back at her from a giant black-and-white photograph. A silver necklace with a snake clasp encircled the subject’s throat.
‘Svetlana Markova’ read the caption. ‘Prima ballerina 1962–1972’.
‘That’s not Svetlana Markova!’ said Peter.
‘It’s Stella!’ breathed Clara. She remembered the photograph of Stella and Christobel by the fountain. S & C. Two friends?
‘“Svetlana danced many roles including Coppélia, Swan Lake and Giselle,”’ read Peter slowly.
Stella? A ballet dancer? Clara remembered the obituary. Svetlana was the ‘friend’ who was tipped to go on the European tour and take on all of Christobel’s roles.
The postcard. The one from Rome. It was from her. She’d sent it to Uncle when she was dancing a part that would have been danced by Christobel if she hadn’t died.
‘Peter,’ said Clara, as the horrific realisation dawned on her. ‘Stella knew Christobel AND your granny. And both of them were poisoned!’
Peter sat down on the kerb and slapped his head with his hand. ‘No one knew why Granny was always so tired! It made me feel so cross and fed up. It’s why I got into all that trouble at school!’ Peter’s face was scrunched up, as if in pain. ‘Oh, Clara … do you think … do you actually think Stella must’ve been feeding Granny poison?’
Clara flumped down next to Peter. Had she? And had Stella really poisoned Christobel because she wanted to dance all those roles? She must have been so jealous of her! Everyone had thought she was Christobel’s friend. But she couldn’t have been. She must have hated her!
Terrible as it was, that made sense. But she still didn’t have a clue how that connected to Peter’s granny. Why would Stella want Elsa Trimble out of the way?
‘We need to find the EVIDENCE, Clara. The poison!’ said Peter frantically. ‘We’ve got a spare key to Stella’s flat in the cupboard!’ His face started to crumple and Clara felt a rush of concern. All the spirit seemed to have drained out of him. He looked wan and tired.
‘At least your gran’s safe now,’ Clara said firmly, and Peter nodded, although he didn’t look very convinced. ‘Wait here,’ she said. She had remembered Peter’s advice about having a treat after a shock. They happened to be right outside a newsagent’s so she went in and bought a bar of chocolate and fizzy drinks.
But when she pushed the door back open and stepped out onto the street, Peter was no longer sitting on the kerb. He was locked in a struggle with a tall, thin, black-coated man. Fear clutched at her. It must be Jackson Smith! He’d caught up with them at last.
‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Let him go!’ The man was pushing Peter against the side of a big black car, opening the door, thrusting him in, then slamming the door shut with a loud crack.
Clara dropped the chocolate and the fizzy drinks. They landed with a thud on the pavement. She looked up and down the street. No one was about. ‘Help!’ she shouted. But it was too late – the man was coming for her now.
‘Get in and shut up,’ he rasped. A metallic voice, grating, harsh.
‘Let me go!’ she shouted, twisting herself out of his grasp, kicking at his shins, scratching wherever she could. But his arms were strong and the hand rough as sandpaper as he clamped it over her mouth, stopping her screams.
And then in the distance came the sound of a siren and, sensing hesitation, Clara bit down on the hand, sinking her teeth into the bony flesh. Ugh, it was horrible. But it did the trick. The man swore and let her go, and then she was running, flying down the street and onto the Strand. She ran on and on, her heart in her mouth, until she arrived at an enormous square dominated by a tall column and ornamental fountains. Shakily, she sat down to catch her breath. The square was busy, full of people feeding pigeons. There were hundreds of them swooping down and hopping around. She was safe for now. The man would never dare try and grab her here.
Was that man Jackson Smith? Had he kidnapped Peter? He had tried to capture her too! Clara remembered the clawing bony hands and shuddered. Had Stella sent him to get them? To take them back to Yorkshire and … poison them too? A gaggle of children clambered onto a giant stone lion at the foot of the column. Their joyful cries contrasted sharply with the waves of panic scudding through Clara. If only she could be like that, without a care in the world, free to play. But instead she must unscramble her thoughts and figure out what to do next.
She could go straight to the hospital and tell Granny everything. But the nurse had said Granny mustn’t suffer any shocks if she was to get well. She could go to the Royal Opera House and somehow get through to Sergei. But he was dancing all afternoon and evening. And anyway, he might think she was utterly mad.
The only thing left was to go to the police. But first she had to get the evidence, like Peter had said. They had to be able to prove that Stella was a criminal.
* * *
Miraculously, Clara managed to find her way back from the square to Whitehall and onto a number three bus. For a minute, relief cut through her anxiety. Thank goodness she had paid attention to their route on the way here. The last thing she needed now was to get lost.
By the time she stepped off the bus in Kennington, a late afternoon fog had descended. She was cold and scared. She was worried there might not even be any poison in the flat. Surely Stella would have covered her tracks. And meanwhile, Peter might be in the gravest danger.
Thankfully, the key to the flat was still under the mat. All she had to do was find the key to Stella’s, let herself in and then look for something incriminating.
Yes, she could do that.
But as she entered number sixty-four, the phone was ringing. Clara froze. What if it was Stella saying she had Peter and she would poison him right now unless Clara came back? Clara steeled herself and picked the receiver up.
‘Clara!’ wailed a voice down the line. Clara let out a long breath and sank down on the nubby green sofa. It was Amelia-Ann. She must have found Peter’s number in the telephone directory. ‘I had to ring you! You’ve got to come now!’
‘Is it Peter?’
‘It’s Braithwaite Manor. Oh, Clara, it’s been sold!’
‘Sold?’ Clara’s knees trembled. She was glad she was sitting down. ‘How do you know?’
‘We were playing on the moor, me and Luci and Curtis, and we rode past it on Dapple. There’s a sign outside.’
‘What sign?’
‘It says “Mordens’ Home for Unwanted Children”.’
Morden.
Clara remembered the couple who had come to view the house when she and Peter had hidden in the wardrobe. The couple who had said the house was ‘suitable for their purposes’. What had been their exact words? No distractions, no peering eyes. She felt a chill spreading deep in her bones.
‘And then Nan was in the s
hop’ – Amelia-Ann was still talking – ‘and there was a woman in there with the most horrible eyes saying the first two children are arriving today! They’ve got dormitories set up already and everything!’
Clara pressed the phone receiver so hard against her ear it hurt.
The first two children. Her and Peter?
‘Amelia-Ann …’ She felt as though she could barely talk. And when the words came, they were quick and breathless. ‘I think they’ve already got Peter.’ The bony hand, gripping her arm. That voice, telling her to shut up as he tried to force her into the car. The harsh rasp, metal on metal, like a knife scraping against a cheese grater. Why hadn’t she realised at the time? Of course it had been Morden. Unless he and Jackson Smith were one and the same.
‘What do you mean? How can they have got Peter? Clara? Are you still there?’ Amelia-Ann was shrieking down the phone at her now.
‘Yes. I’m coming. I’ll be there tomorrow. Will you meet me? Promise?’
Clara’s heart was hammering as she replaced the receiver on its cradle. Was Stella in league with the Mordens? She raced into the kitchen. There in the cupboard was the key. Clara grabbed it. She slammed out of Peter’s flat and, crossing to number sixty-three, shoved the key in Stella’s lock.
Stella’s flat was exactly the same as Peter’s, but more sparsely furnished and without any of the warmth. Clara crashed from room to room, banging open cupboards, looking under the bed, searching for … what? A brown bottle? A green bottle? What colour bottle denoted poison? Something with a skull and crossbones on it to warn of dangerous contents? But the kitchen was meticulously clean, the cupboards were practically bare and there was not a trace of anything, liquid or powder, that looked remotely poisonous. A search of the bathroom and bedroom also yielded nothing.