by Judith Eagle
Grabbing it, Clara raced up the stairs. She could hear Morden sloshing around, the squeak of the tap as he turned it off. Quickly she leapt forward, slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock. Then back to her bedroom, quick, quick! The hammer was still there and the floorboards she’d prised up to rescue Stockwell. She ran back to the bathroom and began nailing a plank of wood across the door. ‘See what it’s like yourself to be locked up for once!’ she shouted through the keyhole.
When she had finished, Clara ran back downstairs and burst into the study. Matron had Peter in an armlock. He was writhing to and fro to escape her grasp, but her grip was strong and she held on fast.
‘Let him go,’ Clara yelled.
‘I will not,’ uttered Matron, scowling and holding her stick out in front of her as if to ward Clara off. Water continued to stream out of the hole. ‘Where’s Morden? What were you doing up there? I’ll teach you to disobey me—’
Clara lunged at Matron. Matron stabbed at her with her stick.
Then an almighty crash came from outside. The sound of hooves on wood, a whinny, children’s voices.
Finally, Amelia-Ann was here!
The door to the study flew open and a ball of black fur streaked across the floor, barging past Matron and shooting into Peter’s arms. It was Stockwell, purring so vigorously she sounded like a volcano about to erupt.
‘Get it away!’ Matron cried, backing away from Peter and the cat. And in a glorious rush, Clara remembered crouching in the wardrobe and the Mordens’ hasty exit when they had realised there was a cat about. Matron was allergic to cats! Clara had told Amelia-Ann about it ages ago, the day they had first met. And she had remembered! Clara felt a surge of pride on behalf of her clever friend.
Grinning, Peter walked deliberately towards Matron, holding Stockwell aloft. Back in the wardrobe, Clara had wished for a whole army of cats to frighten Matron off. Now she hoped one would be enough.
Matron cowered and began to splutter and cough. ‘Get-the-cat-out-of-here,’ she hissed. And then her eyes widened as a ginger-and-white tomcat shot into the room, followed by a tiny grey kitten. Close behind came Curtis and Luci, shouting encouragement. ‘Go Marvin, go Pigeon!’ they yelled.
Matron’s eyes bulged and she backed up against the wall. ‘Vicious children,’ she wheezed, making a feeble attempt to tap her stick. She staggered sideways. A strange strangled sound gurgled its way out of the shocked O of her mouth, then she sagged at the knees and slithered down the wall.
‘Tell us where Stella Jones is,’ demanded Clara, ‘or we’ll leave you locked in this room with the cats.’
‘At Jarvis and Jarvis Solicitors in Leeds,’ croaked Matron.
‘Is the enemy secured?’ yelled Amelia-Ann. Clara could hear her clip-clopping about on Dapple in the hall.
‘Yes!’ Clara yelled back. They gathered the cats and backed out of the study, slamming the door shut. Then Clara ran to James’s cupboard to get the key, and for extra good measure they dragged as much furniture as they could to barricade Matron in.
‘What about the man?’ asked Amelia-Ann. She looked magnificent sitting astride Dapple in her yellow fisherman’s coat with her fiery hair glowing, like a Valkyrie come to the rescue in their hour of doom.
‘Locked in,’ said Clara. She could hear outraged shouts and hammering on the bathroom door. Her heart was pounding. ‘Can you guard them?’ she appealed to Amelia-Ann and the cousins. ‘We’ve got to go to Leeds—’
‘And then London …’ said Peter.
‘Go, go!’ said Amelia-Ann. ‘Nan has called the police. And Tom’s coming in the car. If you start for the village, wave him down and he’ll take you to Leeds.’
Clara and Peter streaked out of the house, along the drive and onto the little road that snaked its way across the moors. The wind roared, blasting into Clara’s face, pushing and buffeting against her body, but nothing would slow her down. Peter was next to her, his footsteps matching hers. A surge of power shot through her, propelling her forward. Her lungs felt like they were about to explode.
‘Look!’ Peter grabbed her arm and pointed along the road. They stopped, hearts thudding, and watched the vehicle approach. But it wasn’t Tom’s car. Clara panted to get her breath back, rubbing a stitch at her side. She bent over and breathed in, willing the pain to disappear. The car stopped a few yards from them and Clara rolled her body back up.
The door of the car opened and a pair of dazzling creatures flew out. Clara stared and rubbed her eyes. They looked like two exotic birds crash-landed on the moors. She rubbed her eyes again. Was it magic? And then amidst the froth of net and lace she saw the gleam of satin slippers, exaggerated kohl-rimmed eyes – in a flash she understood.
The woman who had been driving was wearing a tutu. A glittering tiara was perched on her head.
But it was the other one, the man striding towards Clara, who made her heart stop.
It wasn’t his costume that took her breath away – although that was magnificent, like a peacock covered in hundreds of thousands of tiny iridescent feathers, blues and greens and mauves and greys.
It wasn’t the silvery mask strung round his neck.
It was his features that struck her, features that were familiarly sharp and pointy; it was the roses in his cheeks; it was his blue-black curls. And it was the arm reaching out to her and … what was that? A starling tattooed on his wrist.
Clara felt a kind of explosion inside. He had got her message! He did care! And he had come!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
For a long, long moment, Clara and Sergei Ivanov stared at each other. The wind still wailed, the grass still whipped, the rain still fell in sharp, icy shards; but while the world kept turning, for Clara it was as if time stood still. She was utterly transfixed by this person who gazed back at her with equal intensity. It was a warm gaze, a kind gaze. It was a gaze brimming with so much sadness and longing it made her want to cry. And there was something else besides. Something fathoms deep, something unsayable, something profound.
‘I never knew,’ Sergei was saying. He offered his hand and Clara grasped it, a ship in stormy seas being pulled to safety. It was a smooth hand, a gentle hand; Clara looked at the tattoo again and then up at him, this man who must be her one true father. Her chest, which had been so, so tight, felt like it was melting.
‘Sergei Ivanov!’ Peter’s face was scarlet from the run. He looked like he was about to faint with excitement and worry, all rolled into one. ‘This is Clara, Christobel Starling’s daughter!’
‘Sergei, this is why you dragged me here! She is the true likeness of you!’ The woman in the tutu was staring at them in delight, looking first at one, then the other.
‘I am Ekaterina Rostov,’ she carried on, her eyes dancing. She hugged Clara and then Peter. ‘He asked me to drive him, said it was matter of life and death. Now I see you, I know why!’
‘How did you know where to find us?’ Peter managed, his eyes on stalks.
‘Rudolf gave me the note signed with the name Starling,’ said Sergei. ‘And then … Clara’ – he glanced at her and Clara felt sure he was looking at her the exact same way that Granny looked at Peter – ‘left another message to say she was coming here. I had heard of Braithwaite Manor, because it was where …’ He faltered and his face fell.
‘Where Christobel grew up?’ Peter finished for him helpfully.
‘Yes, and where her brother lives,’ said Sergei.
He had come! Clara crowed to herself. He had told Ekaterina it was a matter of life and death. Sergei was her father and he was interested in her existence. Uncle had been wrong.
‘We have to go to the solicitors now!’ she burst out. ‘In Leeds. Stella poisoned Peter’s granny and we think she poisoned Christobel too.’ She was gabbling. Sergei was looking from her to Peter. He didn’t understand.
‘She’s selling the house and then she’s going to South America!’ she tried again. ‘We have to stop her before it’s too late!’
Clara waited for Sergei to laugh in disbelief or tell her she was being ridiculous. But he regarded her seriously and she knew all at once he was going to help.
‘Ekaterina, can you drive us?’ he asked. ‘We must do as Clara suggests and go to Leeds at once.’
* * *
In the car, Clara and Peter told Sergei everything. From start to finish, it all came spilling out: Clara’s life with Uncle, her abandonment in the village, Peter’s arrival, then Stella’s; the ballet shoe, the discovery that Stella and Uncle were somehow connected, their time in London, the poisonings.
‘And you really believe Stella poisoned Christobel? And your granny too?’ said Sergei when they had finished.
‘She’s got another name too,’ said Peter. ‘What was it again, Clara?’
‘Svetlana,’ Clara offered. ‘She pretended to be Christobel’s friend.’
‘But she was her enemy,’ added Peter.
‘Not … Svetlana Markova?’ Sergei had gone rigid.
‘Yes!’ said Peter.
Sergei’s face paled. ‘But Svetlana was Christobel’s friend! Her best friend!’ His voice trembled.
‘Is she Russian?’ asked Peter. It was something Clara had been wondering about too. ‘She hasn’t got an accent.’
‘No,’ said Sergei. ‘Svetlana was her stage name. Her real name was … let me think … Ah, I remember. It was Sue James!’
Sue James, Stella Jones, Svetlana Markova. It was all so confusing. Clara’s head reeled.
‘Traitor!’ said Ekaterina with feeling from the front. ‘We will catch her, children, never fear.’
As they sped across the moors, Sergei told them how he had met and fallen in love with Christobel Starling, how they had dreamed of a future together, how they couldn’t bear to be apart. It was so romantic, thought Clara. She could just picture the young couple wandering along hand in hand by the Seine, gazing out over Paris from the Eiffel Tower.
But then Sergei’s face darkened and he described the days following Nureyev’s defection; how the company were rounded up and forced to leave Paris; how he and Christobel didn’t even have time to say goodbye.
‘I wrote to her every day,’ he said, his face drooping. But there was no way of knowing if his letters ever reached her or if she had written to him. And less than two years later, news reached him that she was dead.
Sergei rubbed the tattoo on his wrist with his thumb. ‘It’s a symbol,’ he said, turning his palm upwards so Clara could see, ‘of my eternal love for your mother. She will always be in my heart.’
‘I am sure she wrote to you, Sergei,’ Ekaterina shouted from the front of the car, ‘but in Russia, after Nureyev defected, they would never have let her letters get through to you.’
‘I cried a thousand tears,’ said Sergei, looking at Clara, his eyes deep, dark, pools of regret. ‘They said she died suddenly and no one knew why. No one, not one person, told me about you.’
‘Join the club,’ said Peter. ‘We’ve looked in all the papers, haven’t we, Clara? No one said anything about her. Not one peep. She was a secret. Even her uncle didn’t tell her anything.’
‘Or Cook,’ said Clara with feeling.
‘When the authorities finally approved this tour I knew this was my chance,’ said Sergei. ‘I would see Edward and we could talk about Christobel. But when I telephoned, no one answered, and after that the line was dead.’
‘The ballet company is terrible – they like to keep the babies secret,’ said Ekaterina. ‘Christobel was young, you had disappeared back to Russia, they would have made her keep the baby quiet … You know how they are.’
‘But,’ Sergei said, ‘why would Svetlana – Sue, Stella, whatever she is called – poison your grandmother? What is her … what do you call it … motive? What is her motive for that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Peter.
‘But we’re going to find out’ said Clara.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The solicitors turned out to be in a street very close to Petrushka, up a rickety staircase above a shop selling second-hand books. They left Ekaterina waiting in the car and bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time. But as Clara reached the door with the name Jarvis and Jarvis emblazoned on a brass plaque, she paused.
‘Open it then!’ said Peter. Clara shook her head and put her finger to her lips. She didn’t trust Stella one bit. Maybe it was better if, for the moment, she didn’t know Sergei was here. ‘Will you wait out here?’ she whispered to him.
Sergei nodded. Clara took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. Behind a desk sat a small, rotund man. He blinked at the new arrivals in surprise.
‘Children, what are you doing here?’ Stella whipped round. Next to her, Uncle was staring at them as if he’d seen a pair of ghosts. He tried to stand but Stella shot out a hand to stop him, her fingers curling claw-like round his wrist. He sat again, scowling wretchedly. It was a familiar look, as if he wished he was anywhere but here.
‘She can’t sell it!’ Clara burst out, ignoring Stella’s question and addressing the startled lawyer. ‘She’s not my guardian. She hasn’t got the right. Tell him, Uncle. You can’t let her!’
Stella turned round properly now and the look she gave Clara was so violent it almost threw her off balance. What had happened to that glamorous, easy-going creature? The one who had let them have the run of the house and do as they pleased? This new Stella stared at Clara with such scorching, burning eyes that she could almost feel the hate radiating from her. A vein throbbed angrily at her temple; a nerve twitched violently under one eye. All traces of the benign Stella had disappeared. How had Clara not seen the real person before?
‘I have no idea what she’s talking about, Mr Jarvis,’ said Stella, recovering her composure. She turned back to the lawyer and tapped her long fingernails impatiently on the desk. ‘Ignore them. Please continue.’
‘I said, she’s not my guardian,’ said Clara, standing her ground.
‘She’s a fake,’ said Peter. ‘Ask her! She calls herself different names too! Stella, Svetlana, Sue …’
‘I take it you are Clara?’ ventured the lawyer. She nodded. Wasn’t it obvious? ‘Well, well, my dears, these are wild accusations indeed.’ The lawyer pointed at the document in front of him. ‘It says quite clearly here that Sue James is your legal guardian. Your mother wrote a will in which she specifically stipulated that Ms James was to look after you until—’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Stella.
‘Ms James! There is no need to be discourteous,’ protested the lawyer looking hurt.
‘But he’s my guardian,’ said Clara, pointing to Uncle who was looking down at his feet. What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he saying anything?
‘Tell her, Edward.’ Stella pinched at Uncle’s sleeve, ‘so we can get this finished.’
Uncle sighed. ‘There is no question of us not selling the house,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘You will be very well looked after by Mr and Mrs Morden in the home.’
‘No!’ shouted Clara. ‘No!’ She watched in horror as Stella picked up a pen, signed her name on the document and then passed it to Uncle.
‘Uncle! Stop!’ She needed to know why he was doing this. What possible reason could have driven him to it? ‘We know what happened to Christobel! Did you hate her that much?’
Uncle laid down his pen and turned to Clara. His expression was just as cold and distant as ever, but behind it lay a glimmer of something else. What was it? Turmoil? Fear?
‘I hated her all right,’ he said quietly. ‘That mother of yours could never put a foot wrong. She was the apple of our mother and father’s eye. Whereas I … they never loved me. They expected me to fail. And then when I got caught up in the gambling game, they wouldn’t help me out … I was forced to take the jewels. I said I would pay them back but—’
‘Eddie! We haven’t got time for a potted family history,’ hissed Stella. ‘Sign it. Now.’
‘No, Sue, I won’t.’ Unc
le laid the pen down. He met Stella’s eyes and Clara saw that at last there was a hint of defiance. ‘Clara should at least know that I never asked you to do what you did. You agreed to befriend my sister, to get her to accept me, welcome me back into the family fold. Not—’
‘Purrleease,’ interrupted Stella. ‘I did the befriending bit – what torture! I got your name back on the will, didn’t I? But those things weren’t much help to me, were they?’
‘No,’ said Uncle bitterly. ‘You wanted more. Far more.’
‘She wanted Christobel’s roles, didn’t she?’ interjected Peter.
‘And half the family fortune,’ said Uncle. He put his head in his hands.
‘Well, your conscience didn’t seem to trouble you much back then,’ snapped Stella. ‘You could’ve gone to the police. But you didn’t, did you? Oh no. You toddled straight back here to claim your beloved Braithwaite Manor.’
‘For pity’s sake, what’s going on?’ The lawyer looked from Stella to Uncle. ‘Has there been some sort of foul play that I’m not privy to?
‘No Mr Jarvis—’ started Stella.
‘Yes!’ yelled Peter. ‘They murdered Christobel Starling and they tried to murder my granny! What did Granny ever do to you?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, little boy! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,’ Stella said to the lawyer.
Something inside Clara snapped and rage took hold of her. ‘You did kill my mother!’ she shouted, hurling herself at Stella. A great fury pumped through her veins. ‘And you didn’t stop her,’ she screamed at Uncle, kicking him hard in the shins.
‘Get your hands off me.’ Stella’s face twisted with venom. But Clara would not let go. Stella struggled and squirmed, wriggled and writhed, but Clara clung on.
‘Now, now,’ Mr Jarvis said faintly from the safe place behind his desk. ‘Fighting won’t help. I’m sure if we all sit down quietly we can sort this out.’
But in answer, Clara dug her nails deeper into Stella’s wrists. Stella raised her knee and rammed it into Clara’s leg. Clara spat. Stella scratched. Clara pounded and punched, grabbed and kicked, every blow a small compensation for the hurt and loneliness she’d felt for all those years.