by Kerstin Gier
“Well, if you’re too lazy to read your e-mails, I can do it for you.” Mia opened the iPad again. “Wait a moment, here we are. The messages that arrive in Secrecy’s inbox are automatically sent on to three other addresses, right? And your own secret account for Secrecy is in the name of Adelaide Hanley. Which I think is very sweet because it’s your grandmother’s maiden name.”
Florence didn’t jump or flinch, but the relaxed expression slowly left her face. Well, well.
“But of course it’s not too clever—one should never use such personal details in fake e-mail addresses,” Mia went on. Her fingers flew over the keyboard on the screen, and I didn’t know what I thought more fascinating, that or the change on Florence’s face. “The same applies to passwords, even if you change them every week. It’s inadvisable to use combinations with the names of pets, birth dates, house number and so on, but okay, here we have 172Spot97, so—”
“That’s enough!” Florence snatched the iPad away from her, and for a moment I was afraid she’d throw it at the wall. But then she simply put it on her lap. There was anger, annoyance, and maybe a trace of shame in her face.
So Florence was Secrecy! I was slowly beginning to see what that meant. Which of the many catty remarks on the Tittle-Tattle blog had come from Florence? Was she the one who had written all those horrible things about me?
Oh, hell. So much for being lighthearted, full of good humor, and ready to like everyone.
“And I was just beginning to like you a little,” I said quietly.
“Well, all I wanted was for you two to go away again.” Florence sprang to her feet so suddenly that Mia and I jumped nervously. With great presence of mind, Mia managed to catch the iPad.
“So what? Suppose I am Secrecy?” Florence was looking daggers at us. “Do I always have to be perfect, while you can get your hands on anything you like, just because you’re blondes and a little younger? Are you the only ones in this house who can get away with behaving badly? But sure, when it comes to you, everyone thinks it’s cute and charming and you didn’t mean it that way. Whatever you do. Dad and Grayson always have excuses for you. Everything revolves around the pair of you!” Up to now she’d sounded angry, but at this point, her mood changed. She looked at me accusingly, and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s bad enough that Dad has eyes only for your mother, but even Grayson spends more time with you than with his own sister, and with his friends, it’s Liv this, Liv that—they’ve forgotten I even exist.”
“When they find out that you’re Secrecy, who’s always writing such delightful things about them, I’m sure they’ll remember you exist,” said Mia, and Florence shuddered.
Grayson and his friends—well, well. I narrowed my eyes as I looked at my future stepsister. Arthur had once been one of Grayson’s friends. Arthur, who had admitted giving Secrecy information. Did that mean Florence and Arthur were hand in glove?
Mia unsympathetically folded her arms. “You were writing the Tittle-Tattle blog way before we came to London, so don’t go holding us responsible for the nasty, sly way you behave!”
“Mia!” gasped Lottie, horrified. She was standing in the doorway, carrying her boots and pantyhose, and she looked as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “What’s the matter? And you were all getting on so well just now!”
“She’s Secrecy!” Mia pointed to Florence. “She just this minute admitted it.”
Lottie knew the Tittle-Tattle blog. Ever since there’d first been something about us in it, she read every entry posted—sometimes she even read it aloud to us. And if it was something unpleasant, she used to get much more indignant than we did. So she laughed incredulously now. “This is no laughing matter, you silly girls. Florence has nothing to do with that nasty, horrible person who writes such wounding things.”
Florence interrupted. “Yes, I do, damn it! I am that nasty, horrible person. And I did write all those wounding things.” At this point, she really did burst into tears.
“Not all of them. You’re only one of three nasty, horrible people,” Mia corrected her, while Lottie was staring at Florence, unable to take it in.
“But … but you’re an angel,” she protested. “You do all that good work for charity in the soup kitchen, and you sign petitions against breaches of human rights, you give Buttercup little treats, you tickle her behind the ears when you think no one’s looking.” It almost looked as if Lottie herself was going to start crying. “I know for a fact that you’re so prickly with Ann only because you’re afraid she might break your father’s heart. You seem so tough only because you lost your mother when you were a little girl, and I’m sure there’s a soft heart under the tough exterior.”
While Mia was rolling her eyes and muttering something about “karma, cause and effect,” the blood rose to Florence’s face. I’d never seen her go red like that, and all at once I was almost sorry for her.
“You only think that, Lottie, because on principle you believe the best of everyone,” she said, suppressing a sob. “I was so horrid to you, but you always made out you didn’t notice. You always understand everyone, and then you bake those wonderful tarts and cakes, and although you adore Liv and Mia, you tried to be nice to me … and all the time I was…”
“Secrecy,” said Mia, finishing her sentence for her. “But if it’s any consolation, you had by far the best literary style of any Secrecy. And you were much the funniest.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “And no, you weren’t the nastiest of them—at least, not about Liv and me. Except maybe over Mr. Snuggles the topiary peacock.”
Florence dropped on her bed again. “I’m not proud of what I did, okay? But it felt so cool when Secrecy came to me last summer and made me her successor, if you can understand that. I mean, me, out of all the people she could have picked, and when Emily and Grayson didn’t want me to have anything to do with their silly school magazine. Secrecy said she could imagine me being better than she was, and then—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “So there was another Secrecy last year?”
“Yes, I knew that,” said Mia at once. “Until last year, all the posts were by the same person—it was only after that I could see the differences. Why did the first Secrecy give up the blog?”
“She left school.” Florence had herself under control again. “But she didn’t want to let the Tittle-Tattle blog die—it was kind of her baby, and she wanted someone else to go on with it. So we took the blog over, with all sorts of technical know-how—Secrecy’s father set it up for us on a server that can’t be hacked into, it’s in Latvia or somewhere. Did you know that the website gets over eleven thousand hits a day?” I couldn’t help seeing that she was really proud of that. “First only the students at Frognal read it, then the teachers, and then other schools in our part of town found out about it, but now we’re known all over London—all over the world, really.”
Oh God, now I really was sorry for her. I hadn’t realized how much Florence had needed the blog for her ego. But she couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Except …
“Who are we?” I inquired.
“Who’s the first Secrecy?” asked Mia at the same time. “The original Secrecy?”
Florence looked up and managed a wry smile. “I thought you knew that, Private Detective Silver.”
“No, I hadn’t reached that part yet,” Mia reluctantly admitted. “My inquiries were concentrated on the present Secrecy.”
“And who’s doing it now?” I was beginning to get impatient.
“There are two others, and I know only one of them,” said Florence. “Pandora Porter-Peregrin. We often exchanged information and discussed subjects.”
Mia nodded. “Pandora is the Secrecy who has something against Hazel Pritchard and her mother. She likes to criticize people’s appearance. And best of all she liked writing intimate things about Persephone.”
“Her own sister!” Poor Persephone! How awful to live under the same roof as someone who betrays your trust like … Hang on
a moment! It was the same with me. I gave Florence a dark glance.
She looked down.
Lottie, still all confused, looked at her watch. “I think it’s time we had that carrot cake. Carbohydrates are good for the nerves.” As she left the room, we heard her murmuring, “If only I’d known, of course I’d have baked vanilla crescents.”
“We ourselves don’t know who the third Secrecy is,” Florence went on before we could ask her. It was obviously doing her good to unburden herself like this at last. As if a dam had broken. And somehow or other the situation struck me as only too familiar.
“I even suspected Emily of leading a kind of journalistic double life, because the third Secrecy writes the fewest articles, but at the same time she’s in charge in a way,” Florence told us. It was all coming to light now. “She’s the one who actually posts them online—and often she’s made changes or added something, which would be typical of Emily, but that doesn’t fit, because she’d never criticize herself like that. And that Secrecy was the one who first tracked down the scandals and affairs among the teaching staff, and Emily wouldn’t have a clue about that kind of thing. No, she must be someone else.”
“He,” said Mia, relishing the look of astonishment in our eyes. “The third Secrecy is a he. And you were getting close to it, Florence. I had Emily on my own list of suspects for quite a while. But it’s her brother, Sam.”
“Oh no!” Sam, who was always telling people they should be ashamed of themselves—was Sam, the school’s self-appointed guardian of morality, really Secrecy? Impossible! Yet when you thought about it, it fit. Sometimes Secrecy had sounded really priggish.
“Sam, is it?” growled Florence. “That little horror! I ought to have known—he was always pestering Emily and me. I was furious with the way he talked about poor Mrs. Lawrence.” She glanced at me sideways. “And a few of the nasty things about you were his work, Liv. I swear they weren’t all mine.”
The door swung open, and Lottie tottered in with a tray of plates and cups, as well as a steaming teapot. The carrot cake took pride of place in the middle of the tray, and Lottie had quickly put the marzipan carrots she’d made in advance on the icing, which was still soft.
“Wait a minute,” she said when she had put the tray down on the desk. “It’s not usual with carrot cake, but I have some whipped cream downstairs, and it’ll do us all good. Mia, you cut up the cake and share it out, Liv can pour the tea, and, Florence, blow your nose. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“She really does think her magic baking will solve all the world’s problems,” said Florence as Lottie went downstairs again. But she obediently took a tissue off her bedside table.
Mia stood up. “She’s right. Her carrot cake has saved the day for me goodness knows how often.” On her way to the desk, she accidentally kicked the cushion that she had swept to the floor under the bed.
“Watch out,” said Florence in her best Boker-like voice, probably an inborn reflex. She seemed to feel embarrassed about it herself, because by way of explanation she added, “My mother embroidered that cushion. It’s my favorite.”
Mia knelt down and felt under the bedspread. “Yuck, it’s ages since anyone swept up under here … oh.” There was a soft rustle as she emerged again, holding two empty, transparent plastic bags.
“Do you … what are those?” asked Florence.
In silence, Mia handed me one of the bags and gave the other to Florence, who gazed at it, totally at a loss.
Marabou, sorted, black, six to ten centimeters. 100 g. Product of India, said the white sticker on the bag I was holding. I suddenly felt as if someone had grabbed me by the throat. “Keep away from children under three years old. Oh my God, Florence…”
“It was you in Grayson’s room with the feathers,” said Mia, and she sounded like a shocked little girl, not a bit like Private Detective Silver, who had just brought clear evidence to the light of day.
“What are you talking about? I’ve never seen these bags before!” Florence was staring alternately at the plastic bags and Mia. Stammering, she tried to find an explanation. “It … it’s someone from school trying to make me look as if I did that scary thing with the feathers.” She looked at Mia. “Was it you? Did you put them under my bed so no one would suspect you?” She looked upset. “My father thought it was you at once. And you kicked my cushion under the bed yourself so that we’d find the plastic bags.”
“Have you lost your marbles?” Mia tapped her forehead. “And I suppose I’m Secrecy too, am I?”
“No! I mean yes. Oh, shit!” Florence ran her fingers through her hair. “Why in heaven’s name would I go scattering feathers around Grayson’s room?”
“Well, to make it look like I’d been playing a stupid prank again,” said Mia. “And because you’re an underhand—”
I put a hand on her arm to keep her from going on. Okay, so it had taken me a full minute, but now I knew exactly what had happened. How could we have been so blind? It wasn’t as if this was the first time!
“Livvy?” Mia was looking at me sideways. “What’s the matter? Why have you suddenly gone so pale?”
“Florence can’t help it. She doesn’t remember scattering those feathers around—she did it in her sleep.” I crumpled up the two plastic bags and got to my feet. And now, of all times, neither of the people I needed was here. Grayson was on his way to meet that Bloody Sword character in Islington, and on Wednesdays Henry always took Amy to little kids’ swimming. “Please can I borrow your cell phone, Florence?” I looked around for it.
“No, you can’t.” Florence’s lower lip was beginning to tremble. “And I didn’t do anything in my sleep. This is all nonsense. What are you getting at with—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, let me use your damn phone!” I snapped at her. Ideas were whirling around in my mind, all mixed up, confused, and biting each other’s tails. It was so logical, and yet … no … and how did the snake come into the picture? I really had to talk to Henry and Grayson, urgently. Together, maybe we could assemble the separate parts of the jigsaw puzzle into a pattern that made some kind of sense.
Florence seemed to realize that I was serious. She gave me her phone and looked at me uncertainly. “You have to believe me. I…”
I brusquely waved her explanations away and looked for Henry’s number in the contacts.
As the phone rang, something else occurred to me—something that we had entirely forgotten in all the uncertainty. “Who was the first Secrecy, Florence? The one who originally began the blog?”
Florence shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if the name will mean anything to you. She took her final exams and left before you and Mia came to London. The girl who ended up in a psychiatric hospital.” She sighed. “Anabel Scott. Arthur Hamilton’s ex-girlfriend.”
Anabel, then. Well, of all today’s surprises, that was maybe the least surprising.
At the other end of the connection, I got not Henry himself but his voice mail. Damn it!
23
THE FIRST PERSON I saw when I stepped out into the corridor was Emily, and as usual, she was about the last person I wanted to meet. But today the sight of her made me really furious. She had the nerve to sit right beside Frightful Freddy as he guarded Grayson’s dream door, and she was chewing a pencil and staring at a notepad on her knees with such concentration that she didn’t notice my door, with the lizard knocker, closing behind me as I slowly came closer.
“Okay, the root of three million nine hundred and twelve thousand four hundred and eighty-four,” she was muttering. “That would be one thousand nine hundred and seventy-eight. Correct?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you any information about that,” squeaked Frightful Freddy.
I let my eyes wander down the corridor. Neither of the other two seemed to be here, although Grayson had actually gone to bed before me. After such a strenuous day, however, when so much had come to light, he would probably be in a phase of deep sleep for now, however anxiou
s he felt on behalf of Florence. And to be honest, I didn’t mind that; he had never been all that helpful to us in the dream corridors. His strengths lay elsewhere. Although I still doubted whether the admittedly sensational results of his dogged research could really save us, now that we knew Arthur was more than just a few steps ahead.
I couldn’t find Florence’s elegant reed-green door at once because it was no longer in its old place. But then I saw that it had moved closer to our doors, in fact much closer; it was now beside Mia’s door, and right opposite Grayson’s.
All the better: it would be easier to keep watch on her here. But I secretly hoped that at least tonight there’d be no need for that. After all that had happened today, surely Florence wouldn’t get a wink of sleep and would be tossing and turning restlessly in bed. And if she wasn’t asleep, then no one could get into her dreams and wreak havoc there.
Always supposing it wasn’t far too late to stop that already.
We really should have known better—after all, as I had told myself before, it wasn’t the first time. Or as Henry put it, “Still Arthur, then.”
Yet again, Arthur had used his unpleasant tricks to get someone close to us under his control. Last winter it had been Mia—he had manipulated her in her sleep, and in the end he almost killed her—and this time he had picked Florence as his nocturnal puppet. Until now all she had done, at least so far as we could reconstruct it, was to put a feather in my hair, scatter two packets of them around Grayson’s room, and switch on his ventilator, but she could just as well have been standing beside my bed armed with a knife instead of a feather, and anyone who knew Arthur was aware that he wasn’t going to stop at harmless terrorist games with feathers. Especially as he now had very different methods at his disposal. We’d been able to see what he was capable of in the cases of Mrs. Lawrence, Persephone, and poor Theo Ellis. For safety’s sake, I had double-locked my bedroom door before I went to sleep.
I’d advised Mia to do the same, and for once she hadn’t asked me why. She had been unusually quiet altogether after our discovery. Unlike Florence, who was understandably much upset by the idea that she’d done extraordinary things in her sleep. Once she had overcome the denial phase (“I’d never do a thing like that!”), she had burst into tears again—and not even Lottie’s whipped cream could cheer her up.