The Midnight Peacock (The Sinclair’s Mysteries)

by Katherine Woodfine

  Ahead of them the wide passage divided into three narrower branches, each heading in a different direction.

  ‘Three of us – and three passages,’ said Jack. ‘I suppose we’ll have to split up. That way at least one of us will find the way to the East Wing and have the chance of catching our ghost.’

  ‘Very well – but we’d better take care,’ said Sophie cautiously. ‘We mustn’t lose our way. We have no idea how far these passages go – or where they might lead.’

  Lil nodded too. ‘And don’t forget – we’re to meet with the others back in the Nursery at midnight.’

  A few moments later Sophie was creeping alone down the left-hand passageway. Although she would never have admitted it to the others, she had not been at all keen on the idea of splitting up. She had learned from experience that she could keep her head in frightening situations, but that did not mean that she was not scared, and there were some things that always made her anxious. Being up high was one; the closed-in, pressing darkness of this underground tunnel was another. She took a few deep breaths and walked on, listening to the reassuring sound of her own feet padding along.

  Perhaps it was no bad thing to be on her own, she told herself. She had a lot to think about after the visit to Colonel Fairley – and indeed, for several minutes, she was so lost in thought that she did not notice she was approaching a short flight of steps. Then, shining her lamp upwards, she realised in excitement that these were the steps that led up to the door in the chimney-piece. She had found it – this was the secret route into the house!

  Excitedly, she started up the steps, but halfway up, she paused again. It occurred to her that whilst Lil’s idea of confronting the ‘ghost’ had been all very well when there were three of them, it might not be quite such a good plan now that she was alone. It seemed unlikely that the elderly Miss Selina would be capable of clambering about in the snow at night, through trapdoors and along underground passages, which meant that their most likely suspect was Vincent. Sophie found she did not much like the idea of catching him in the act of stealing from his own house. She could not imagine he would take kindly to her interference, and for a moment, she hung back. But she did not need to actually confront Vincent, she realised. If she could just glimpse what he was up to, they would at least know for sure that he was the ghost. Otherwise, all their night-time exploring would be for nothing.

  She crept forward up the stairs – but before she reached the door, she heard something that made her stop in her tracks.

  It was a voice, quite close to her. To her astonishment, she realised that someone was speaking in the room on the other side of the chimney-piece door.

  ‘You didn’t come last night,’ it said.

  Sophie froze. Somewhere beyond she heard the low buzz of another voice, though she could not hear the words. Then the first voice replied, in a more jovial tone: ‘You aren’t seriously worried about them are you? Well you needn’t. In any case, I’m clearing out of here tomorrow. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do the same.’

  The world seemed to tip and slide. It couldn’t possibly be real, Sophie told herself. She was dreaming it – she must be.

  ‘I won’t skulk about here any longer, like a rat in a hole,’ said the voice, stronger now and with a sharper edge to it. ‘Besides, I must see that everything is ready for New Year’s Eve.’

  She would know that voice anywhere. Not even just the sound of it but the words – the way it shaped sentences – its rise and fall.

  ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful for all you’ve done. I know we’ve had our differences in the past but that’s set aside now. I knew that you would be the one I could count on for this.’

  She could not possibly mistake that voice. She had heard it before, standing like this listening, icy cold in the darkness – her throat dry, her heart pounding in her chest. Hiding behind a thick, velvet curtain in a box at the theatre, darting in a breathless panic into the bedroom of Mr Lyle’s apartment, standing on the end of the East End docks in the middle of the night. She had heard it in a dark alleyway in Chelsea, and in the very depths of her own nightmares. It had whispered to her: This time I know I’ll see you again.

  The voice she could hear through the secret door of the East Wing was the voice of the man that – try as she might – she had been wondering about for the last two months. It was a voice that she would know anywhere, and that she would never forget – the voice of the man who had killed her parents, and who she believed had killed Colonel Fairley. It was the voice of the Baron.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As the footsteps of the two girls faded into the distance, Jack set out boldly along the right-hand passage. He found that he was rather enjoying himself. All right, so this wasn’t quite what he had expected from a country house party – but he had always enjoyed an adventure. All in all, it had been a jolly interesting Christmas, he reflected. Winter Hall was such a strange place – and as for the people, they were stranger still. He’d come across plenty of well-off upper-crust chaps before, but they’d mostly been good sorts – whereas you couldn’t say that of scowling, sulky-faced Vincent. He’d managed to draw him out a little, chatting about Oxford and one or two fellows they both knew there, but it was obvious he looked down on artists. He sneered at his guests and barely had a word to say to his own sister. Jack certainly wouldn’t fancy spending much time with him.

  Mr Pendleton was a different kettle of fish: he seemed a decent sort for a fellow who wouldn’t know one side of a painting from the other; and he rather thought Miss Whiteley might turn out to be quite good fun if she had the chance to relax and let her hair down. As for Lady Tremayne, she had been jolly kind. It was obvious that she knew more than a bit about art, and Jack was practical enough to realise that having a few wealthy patrons like her could be beneficial to his career.

  Then there had been all this business about ghosts, and hauntings, and secret passages, and mysterious murders in libraries. Jack grinned to himself, thinking that things did always seem to become rather eventful when Sophie and Lil were around. He didn’t mind that; in fact he rather liked it. He thought of the determined look on Sophie’s face whenever she was getting her teeth into a problem. He had never known a girl quite like her before. She might be small and dainty, but she was strong enough to handle anything – even the shock of discovering Colonel Fairley’s death.

  Now he turned his mind to the task at hand, shining the lamp before him. He noticed that the passage, which had at first seemed to curve to the right, was now curling back on itself, twisting towards the left. Was it carrying him back towards the house itself, he wondered? Or towards some other secret spot of Walsingham’s?

  For a moment, he cast himself into the role of the Elizabethan spymaster, dressed in a long, swirling cloak, a dashing sort of hat with a feather in it, and possibly a moustache. He tried to imagine what it would have been like to go creeping down the passageway on a secret mission to protect the Queen from treachery . . . In reality, of course, Queen Elizabeth had had red hair but in Jack’s version of events she had suddenly become small and fair – and rather determined-looking.

  Just then, he became aware of faint sounds in the tunnel ahead of him and stiffened. They were footsteps – and they were moving rapidly in his direction. Could it be the ‘ghost’ coming back down the passage?

  He paused, unsure what to do. The footsteps came closer and closer, an urgent tap-tap-tap against the stone. Surely they couldn’t be the footsteps of an elderly lady – they were far too vigorous for that. Vincent, then? A tall figure with a lamp appeared around the corner, and he made up his mind to confront the fellow. He stepped forward boldly, and the glare from the lamp dazzled him.

  There was a very familiar yell.

  ‘Jack!’ proclaimed a cross voice. ‘You scared me! Why did you jump out at me like that?’

  Squinting in the light, he realised that his sister was standing before him, her hands on her hips.

  ‘I thou
ght you were the ghost!’ he protested. ‘But I suppose our two passages must have linked up.’

  Walking a little way along the passage, Lil showed him that the path she had followed had led to another fork. ‘I turned right – and joined up with your passage. That means we’ll have to take the other branch. Well at least we’re together now. It isn’t much fun wandering around down here all alone. These tunnels are creepy!’

  But they had not walked on for much more than two minutes before they found that the passage led to a stout, wood-panelled door.

  ‘Where do you suppose this leads?’ asked Jack.

  Lil tentatively pushed it. The door opened at once, and they found themselves in a small, square room – windowless, and covered from floor to ceiling in dark wooden panelling. What was more, it was obvious that someone was living here. A wide wooden bench against the wall was being used as an improvised bed, with rumpled sheets, pillows and blankets. There was a makeshift washing area in the corner: a cloth spread over a table, a small looking glass, some shaving things, and a bowl and a jug of water. A table was strewn with papers, books and the remains of a meal: some bread, a piece of cheese wrapped in paper, a bottle of brandy and an empty glass.

  A large oil lamp stood in the centre of the table, together with an ashtray containing the remains of a cigar, and a blue and white box of matches. Jack picked it up and turned it over in his hands. ‘Allumettes,’ he said aloud.

  ‘It’s another hidden room – like the one Leo showed us,’ whispered Lil. ‘I say – do you suppose this could be the hideout of the ghost?’

  Together, they looked quickly around the room. Jack examined the mess of papers on the desk: to his surprise, he saw that amongst them was a London newspaper, dated from only a few days before Christmas, with Mr Sinclair’s ball on the front page. Beside it was two or three handwritten letters, written in what he at first assumed was a foreign language, but on closer inspection, seemed more like a nonsensical muddle of letters and numbers and peculiar characters. Lying beneath was a thin sheet of paper, showing a diagram of a strange symbol, drawn in red and black ink. He picked it up and studied it with interest.

  ‘What do you suppose this is?’ he said.

  Lil’s hand grabbed suddenly at his arm.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ she said, her face serious. ‘Look – do you see this?’ She pointed to one of the square boxes on the map, which was clearly marked with the twisting shape of something that might have been a serpent, or perhaps a dragon. Jack realised it was vaguely familiar.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? It’s the symbol of the Fraternitas Draconum!’ she hissed, her voice heavy with meaning.

  Jack stared at her. He remembered who the Fraternitas Draconum were, of course – they were the sinister organisation who had been behind the theft of the dragon paintings. Sophie had once even eavesdropped on one of their secret meetings in a private room at the exclusive gentlemen’s club Wyvern House. Their members were all rich men like the crooked art collector Randolph Lyle – and one of their most senior members was the Baron himself. But what could those men possibly have to do with this strange secret room at Winter Hall?

  Lil was examining the document, her dark eyebrows drawn into a stark frown. ‘We’ve got to take this,’ she began, but almost at once changed her mind. ‘No – no – we’d better not. We don’t want anyone to know that we’ve been here. Do you have your sketchbook with you?’

  Jack nodded, feeling for the square shape of it in the pocket of his coat. He rarely went anywhere without a sketchbook and a few pencils – you simply never knew when an opportunity to draw might come up.

  ‘Copy it,’ Lil instructed him. ‘And do it quickly. Then we need to get out.’

  Sophie stood motionless at the top of the stone steps. The tunnel was silent; in the room beyond, she could hear once more the faint buzz of another person speaking. Only the Baron’s words were distinct: she could even hear his impatient intake of breath. He must be standing right beside the fireplace, she realised – maybe even leaning upon the mantelpiece. He was mere inches away from her. The thought of it made her shrink back.

  ‘I shan’t contact you again, not until this is over,’ he said. ‘It’s better that way. Of course, if I have to, I’ll send a message but I hope it won’t be necessary. After all, you know what you have to do.’

  But his voice was different, she thought suddenly. The Baron had always spoken in the smooth, confident tones of a wealthy, educated gentleman. Now his voice sounded hoarse and there was an urgent note in it that she had not heard before.

  ‘Make sure the King is in position exactly as we’ve discussed. He must be in our sights. I will take care of all the rest. It’s going to be quite a show. A New Year’s spectacular, right enough.’ He gave a hard little laugh and his voice swelled with pride. ‘The city will burn. The assassination – that will be only the beginning. There will be chaos on the streets. And when the society sees all that I have achieved – when the Master sees what I can do – he will be begging me to return to them. He will see that everything I have sacrificed has been for a reason. I will show him – all of them – what I can accomplish.’

  In the passageway, Sophie found that she was quivering. The Baron was talking about an assassination, she told herself in disbelief. He was talking about murdering the King.

  ‘I have left a careful trail – the authorities will be in no doubt that our German friends are responsible. We will be at war in a matter of days! Of course, the Society is perfectly positioned to benefit. Our funds will be restored; we will prosper. We can stabilise, rebuild – and turn our attention back to the missing paintings. Getting them back will be short work, of course. The government won’t give them a second thought with the King assassinated, and a war in Europe on their hands. Once we have the paintings and we have their secrets – a new Age of the Dragon will be upon us!’

  His voice had risen in excitement, now there was a tense silence. When he spoke again, he sounded more like his usual smooth self. ‘Just make sure you have your motor waiting. It’s going to be dangerous on the streets. And whatever you do, don’t go near Piccadilly Circus.’

  She listened intently, hardly daring to breathe. Then the Baron said briskly: ‘I should go – I need to be on my way. Farewell – and make sure you do exactly as I have told you.’

  It was only as she heard the grating sound that she realised what was happening. The secret panel was opening, and the Baron was about to step through into the passageway – exactly where Sophie now stood.

  Leo and Tilly stood side by side behind the tapestry in the hall. Leo had known it would make a good place to hide: after all, she’d crept behind it and through the secret door that lay beyond dozens of times, whenever she’d wanted to escape from her parents, or Nanny – or to avoid Vincent in one of his nastier moods.

  Now as she stood there, she felt very thoughtful. What would she do if she discovered her brother really was stealing from the East Wing to settle his gambling debts? She supposed she’d have to tell her parents: Vincent would be horrid about it, and she wasn’t even sure that Mother would believe her. Or would she? After all, she’d noticed her disapproving gaze fasten upon her son several times in the last few days.

  Her legs were beginning to ache, and she leaned a little more heavily against her cane. She found herself thinking longingly of London: of her cosy rooms, of the studio at the Spencer, of the streets and squares of Bloomsbury where no one cared what she wore or who she was friends with. She couldn’t wait to go back – to go home.

  Beside her, Tilly was listening intently. It was good to have Tilly back by her side again, and Leo thought with a pang of how unhappy the other girl had looked when Leo had confessed how much she was looking forward to returning to London. She wished now that she hadn’t been so tactless. It was so unfair that she had managed to get away from this place and make a new life for herself, doing what she loved – whilst Tilly was left behind,
pouring tea and poking fires. If only there was a way for Tilly to get away too, she thought.

  But that gave her a sudden idea. Only that morning Mother had been harping on at her about the way she lived in London. The need to dress properly and behave properly and see the proper sort of people. Leo had not really been listening, but she did remember that Mother had said she should have a lady’s maid with her. Now she gave a little squeak of excitement. What if that maid were to be Tilly?

  ‘Tilly,’ she whispered at once. ‘What would you think about coming back with me to London – to be my lady’s maid?’

  Tilly stared at her. ‘What?’ she exclaimed, forgetting all about being quiet.

  ‘It wouldn’t be much of a job. I mean, I don’t go to grand parties – so you wouldn’t have to fuss with gowns or hairstyles or anything like that. And I live awfully simply. It’s nothing at all like here. But it would mean you’d be able to come to London, and we could –’

  But before Tilly could say anything in reply, they both heard the sound of a door opening. Leo grabbed her sleeve and they both watched intently from behind the tapestry, holding their breath. Would it be Vincent?

  But to Leo’s astonishment, the figure who they saw emerging from the East Wing was not Vincent – nor Miss Selina – nor any of the servants. In fact, it was absolutely the last person she would ever have expected to see.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Veronica and Mr Pendleton were waiting for them when Lil and Jack came traipsing up the stairs. It had been snowing again when they had finally made their way out of the tunnels via the secret trapdoor in the folly and now they were cold, wet and tired.

  ‘Did you catch the blighter?’ asked Mr Pendleton in excitement.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Jack, flopping down into Nanny’s armchair. ‘But Lil was right about the secret passage.’ He quickly related the tale of the figure they had seen, the underground tunnels, and the discovery of the secret room. ‘We found something jolly peculiar in there too,’ he began, taking out his sketchbook, but Lil shook her head. ‘Let’s wait for the others and show everyone together.’ She had wrapped a blanket round her shoulders for extra warmth, and now she looked up at the clock: it was already past midnight. ‘They should be here any minute.’