The Case of the Perilous Palace (The Wollstonecraft Detective Agency, Book 4)

by Jordan Stratford

  It was far easier than Mary had anticipated, and within seconds, the two Wollstonecraft detectives were safely inside the darkened room, quietly shutting the window against the wind, the snow from their shoes already puddling the carpet.

  Mary said nothing. She knew Ada well, well enough to let her alone so that the clues could start to take shape in the gloom of the princess’s parlor. Ada had her sense-making face on, and the thing she was trying to make sense of, at the moment, was the bookcase.

  Drina had looked purposefully at the bookcase when they visited, but Mary was unable to see if Ada was scanning for a particular title, or…

  “Greek,” Ada said quietly. “Why must it always be Greek?”

  Indeed, Mary could make out the spines of books in the snow-reflected moonlight that spilled in from the window, and yes, some of them were in Greek.

  There was a series of nearly identical volumes, all with pinkish-beige covers, and with Greek letters on their spines. Some kind of encyclopedia, perhaps, Mary remembered from her previous researches. But in the midst of them stood a misplaced spine, in dark green or blue—it was difficult to make out precisely in the darkness. What was easy to discern was the image of an eagle, stamped in gold foil, upon the odd book’s binding.

  Ada decisively reached out with a fingertip, and rocked the book back on its shelf with a satisfying snick.

  The book was false—a lever for a hidden door behind the bookcase, which silently swung toward the girls.

  “Eagle…mid rho,” said Ada. “That was Drina’s clue. Rho is the Greek letter on these two books on either side, and here’s the book with the eagle. She knew this was here and was telling us how to get in.”

  “But it doesn’t go anywhere,” noticed Mary. “It’s just a cupboard.”

  It did look like a cupboard, just barely deep enough to step into, but it ended in a dark, grimy wall, not unlike the space behind Ada’s bell rope.

  “Not a cupboard,” said Ada, stepping in. “A corridor. Look.”

  As Mary stepped inside, she could see that it was in fact a narrow corridor, which to the right ended in a sharp corner, turning left. A secret passage, in between the walls of Kensington Palace. Fearing that they’d be discovered, Mary pulled the bookcase back to its original place against the wall. Of course, then it was completely dark. And she wasn’t sure how they would get out of the passageway again. Mary’s heart started beating harder.

  “Shh!” shh’d Ada.

  “What?” asked Mary. Could Ada really hear her heart?

  “Shh!” Ada repeated. And there was something to shh about: a sound. A rumble. Voices? Mary was distracted by the undeniable fact that it didn’t smell particularly welcoming there in the scratchy, cobwebby, dark corridor.

  There was some light up ahead, though it was not apparent at first where it was coming from. The girls crept closer, until they could make out two dots of light, or rather, two holes, into which light escaped. Ada tried to peer through, but she was too short, and waved Mary over to take a look.

  The holes in the wall were clearly eyeholes, and as Mary stood on her tiptoes, she could line them up with her own face perfectly.

  This, she realized, is how the little princess was spied upon. She suddenly felt enormously guilty for peeping, then slightly less so as she assured herself that because there was no one in the room, it was no worse than breaking into the palace in the first place.

  “It’s the painting Drina was staring at,” Mary told Ada. “We must be behind it.”

  Ada nodded.

  “I’d built a bit of a map in my head,” Ada explained in a whisper, “but it didn’t make sense until now. The walls didn’t quite line up, but now I know why.” She beckoned Mary to come farther down the grim path, while Mary herself was trying to ignore visions of mice and spiders, or whatever else might haunt the secret passages of palaces.

  “How old is this place?” Mary asked, knowing Ada knew.

  “Kensington Palace, formerly Nottingham House, built 1605, by Sir George Coppin,” Ada rattled off.

  Plenty of time to gather ghosts, Mary thought. Still, Mary had faced the prospect of ghosts before, even though—

  There it was again, a grinding, growling, grunting, guttural sound, with a note of rasping, scraping at the edges of hearing. Ada froze in the faint light from the eyeholes.

  “Is it possible,” asked Mary slowly, “that we are not entirely alone in here?”

  “Well, obviously,” said Ada, a little rudely. She caught herself, and softened her voice. “We know that Drina is always being watched. And we know that Sir John is not the only one watching.”

  “We do?”

  “We do. Drina was popping her eyes out of her head at the painting even when Sir John was in the room. He probably has other people helping him spy on her.”

  “What do we do should we run into a spy?”

  “Hmm,” Ada said thoughtfully. “I didn’t get to that bit. In the plan, I mean.”

  “Should we apprehend them?”

  “I think they might apprehend us, honestly,” said Ada. “Sorry,” she added.

  Step by step, they left the tiny island of light behind the painting, and ventured farther into the secret corridor. There was some kind of supporting frame, which the girls suspected might herald some doorway, or at least the division of rooms on either side, and again, ahead, they caught another source of pale light, though larger and dimmer than that which the painting’s eyeholes had provided.

  Ada stood directly in front of a large, silvery rectangle: a mottled window into the room.

  “It’s a mirror, I think,” whispered Ada. “Into the doll room. It’s like a magic trick, a mirror you can see through.”

  Mary could see row upon row of dolls, their little dresses and jackets immaculately brushed, their hats perfectly set, their painted faces eerie in silvery gloom. The idea that Sir John, or one of his minions, would stand there simply to observe Drina sorting or drawing her dolls made them both queasy. They prepared to shuffle on.

  “Wait, oh, Ada, do wait,” said Mary, her eyes squinting.

  “What is it?” asked Ada as she peered closer to the false mirror.

  “Not through there,” said Mary, pointing. “Up here. There’s writing.”

  Someone had taken chalk, or—no, it had to be chalk—and had inscribed something on the wooden slats around the false mirror.

  “Image held, or?” read Mary.

  “Or what?” asked Ada.

  “No, that’s what it says. ‘Image held, or?’ and that’s it. That’s the whole message.”

  “That’s rude,” said Ada. “It’s making fun of whoever’s on the other side of the mirror. You think it’s your reflection, just for you. The image is held by the mirror, or at least it’s supposed to be. And here it is, fooling you, letting someone else watch you. It’s horrid.”

  “It is horrid,” agreed Mary. “And cruel. But I must confess it is a strange way of putting things.”

  “I think anyone who would go to all this trouble to spy on a little girl keeps strange at the ready.”

  “Perhaps it’s a code?” Mary asked.

  Ada considered this. “It’s an anagram—a letter scramble—for ‘remedial hog.’ Possibly other things, but I can’t think of any right now.”

  “Not much of a code,” admitted Mary.

  “No, let’s—” Ada froze.

  “What is it?” hissed Mary.

  What it was was the sound again, like a heavy chair being dragged against a wooden floor, and a voice at the same time. No words either girl could make out, but more like the idea of words. Coming from the darkness.

  “Mary,” said Ada stiffly.

  “I know,” said Mary. “Me too.”

  “Should we?”

  “Probably not. But let’s,
for Drina’s sake,” answered Mary bravely. “We’ve come this far.”

  “It’s funny,” Ada said, trying to take her mind off the distant growl, which mercifully had faded. “We’ve pretended to be criminals before, but now we really are.”

  “Are we?” asked Mary.

  “Breaking and entering,” said Ada. “Right now. This.” She waved her hand at the passage between the walls. “Crime.”

  “I daresay,” Mary dared say, “that all this thinking should have perhaps come before the doing.”

  “We’re doing because Drina needs help,” Ada insisted.

  “Perhaps it’s not crime, then?” suggested Mary. “Drina left us that clue. Well, left you that clue, which you were clever enough to figure out. The book in the bookcase, which leads to this passage. So that’s not breaking, as we didn’t break anything, and it’s only entering because we were invited.”

  “That does make sense,” agreed Ada.

  “Well, then, that should take your mind off…things,” Mary said, meaning the growling in the distant dark. “And if not, there’s the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “I’m embarrassed to say, really.”

  “Go on, then,” urged Ada.

  “Well, it’s just that it has taken rather a great deal of time to get here, and we’re, not stuck exactly, but I’m not entirely certain that…”

  “Good grief, Mary. Out with it.”

  “I have to pee,” said Mary. “And that’s the truth of it.”

  Ada tried to prevent herself from giggling, and was not altogether successful.

  “I know. I just need to find a privy.”

  “I can’t imagine they’ve built one in the walls,” said Ada, which was not encouraging. “Still, this place is huge, and we’re sure to run into one, even if it is out there…”

  “And we’re in here,” Mary concluded. “Well, let’s explore.”

  “Audentes fortuna juvat,” said Ada.

  “If you say so.”

  “Fortune favors the bold,” translated Ada.

  Mary reached out to Ada’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “Now, come on, then,” said Ada, “and try not to think about running water.”

  “Ada!” giggled Mary.

  “Or fountains,” Ada added cheekily.

  The exchange did a good deal to lighten the girls’ hearts, though Mary admitted to herself she was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable.

  There was another length of dark corridor, and then another curious turn, and then another, possibly allowing for the shape of rooms, or chimneys. Mary was feeling particularly lost.

  “Aha!” whispered Ada. “There’s a…latch, or something. Closest thing we’ve found to a door.”

  “Another bookcase, do you think?” Mary asked.

  “Not sure. There’s these.” Ada pointed to a pair of sliding miniature gates at eye level. “I bet that’s for another painting.” Slowly she slid the sliders sideways.

  “Well?” Mary asked after a full minute, and trying not to think about having to pee.

  “I can’t see from here. Just the ceiling.”

  Mary was confused for a moment, but she quickly realized that Ada, being a bit shorter than herself, was looking upward through the holes, rather than directly through them. Mary stepped over to have a look. She was very conscious of her eyes being set into the face of some portrait in the hall, and it was altogether unnerving.

  It was a hallway, quite brightly lit despite the hour. And directly across from the painting out of whose eyes she was staring was a narrow oak door with a black handle. A familiar sound of rushing water could be heard, and it made Mary do a small, involuntary dance. The door opened, and a maid exited, wiping her hands on her apron after having washed them in a basin. The maid closed the door.

  Mary nodded rather aggressively at Ada, who reached for the latch. It made the tiniest click, but sounded like cannon fire to the two girls.

  Just then, a footman approached the oak door. He stood in front of it as though at strict attention, tugged the front of his jacket, and looked left and right, but he seemed to show no sign of having heard the click. Seeing no one, he entered the lavatory.

  “Oh no,” said Mary.

  It was an agonizing few minutes, but finally, the footman emerged, smartly replacing his gloves after having washed his hands. Although instead of opportunity, his exit only invited the arrival of the two palace guards Mary had seen arrest (and then lose) Allegra, on what Ada and Mary could only assume was some kind of routine patrol of the nighttime hallway.

  No, it was worse. They were waiting their turn for the privy.

  It was Mary’s great misfortune to have stumbled across the most heavily guarded toilet in England.

  “Mary,” said Ada. “I think I’ve found something.”

  “Not now, Ada, please.” She tried very hard to be quiet.

  “No, honestly. There’s something here on the latch.” Ada had a pinch of something in her fingers, and held it up to the eyehole light. Mary thought it was string, at first, with a glint of red.

  “I can’t, Ada…Can’t it please wait just until…”

  “Mary, it all makes sense now.” Ada was increasing in volume as well as excitement. “The Trident, out of Jamaica. The Wallace, from India. The Bonnie Marguerite, from Borneo. Borneo! And I meant to tell Allegra that her circus had finally arrived!”

  “Now, Ada, is definitely not the time. I’ve got to get out of here, and I honestly don’t care if they arrest me, provided they let me use the privy first.”

  “It’s not a beard, Mary. The red hair. It’s fur! Animal fur!”

  The thought was disturbing enough to take Mary’s mind off her immediate predicament. It was also alarming that Ada was by now speaking at full volume, and Mary was certain this would lead to their discovery.

  More alarming still was the dragging sound, the raspy sound, the grunting sound that did not belong to a red-bearded sailor from not-Croatia, not-Hungary, but to some sort of beast—that sound, that sound was closer than ever.

  Mary set her hand on the latch, and Ada was about to employ her quietest yell when out of the dark lurched a strange face with a wide, toothy grin.

  “Gaah!” cried both girls in accidental harmony. Mary’s full weight fell on the now-no-longer-secret panel, and Ada’s weight fell upon Mary, and the two tumbled out of the wall and into the hall.

  “Gaah!” cried a guard, surprised by the unexpected arrival of young girls falling out of the wall.

  “Gaah!” cried the second guard as a strange red beast leapt atop the small pile of girls, and bounced off the opposite wall, bouncing again several times as it sped down the lit corridor toward Drina’s parlor, and the window through which Ada and Mary had entered.

  The next “Gaah!” was Ada’s own battle cry as she scrambled to her feet and gave chase to the creature. That such a sound could come from such a small girl set the guards scurrying in the opposite direction, leaving Mary alone to gather her wits, and decide between her friend and the now-vacant privy.

  “Bother,” she said, resolved, as she made off in the direction of Ada and her quarry. She ran down the hallway, making an effort not to bounce too much.

  It was much quicker going outside the secret passageway than inside it, so it took no time at all for Mary to catch up, and enter the door of Drina’s parlor, where she found Ada, alone.

  There was no sign of the mysterious beast. She tried to recollect it in her mind, but it was impossible. Covered in fur, like a smallish bear, only with long, gangly arms. The face that had frightened her was grey and wrinkled like an old man’s, with tiny eyes set deep into their sockets. Had she imagined it?

  “Ada?” Mary asked.

  “Shh,” Ada answered. Ada stood stock-still in
the room, her eyes fixed on the fireplace. All was precisely as it had been the day before: the chairs Mary and Ada had sat in, the chairs for the baroness and princess. The tall stand in the corner, complete with parrot, who was at the moment clearly asleep, his head tucked under his wing of orange and emerald.

  “Lady Ada?” said Drina, entering the room in her nightdress.

  “Shh,” Ada answered.

  “Lady Ada?” said Baroness Lehzen, entering the room in her nightdress.

  “Shh,” Ada answered. “Honestly, everyone.”

  There was a clatter and clamor in the doorway, and in strode the two guards from earlier, flanking a disgruntled-looking Sir John, who, mercifully, was not in his nightdress.

  “What is all this connotation?” he bellowed.

  “Commotion,” corrected Ada. “And shh. Bring me some fruit.”

  “Fruit!” screeched Lory the parrot, who had suddenly woken up.

  “I beg your paddle?” said Sir John, clearly flustered.

  “Pardon. Fruit,” said Ada. “Bring. Now.”

  “I cannot abscond this impermanence!” roared Sir John, who gestured to the guards.

  “Abide. Impertinence. Fruit.” Ada’s voice was clipped, but she never took her eyes off the fireplace.

  Drina stepped forward and addressed the frustrated baronet. “Sir John, it does seem that we have some sort of pressing urgency at hand. Your assistance is greatly appreciated, and I shall most certainly be mindful to convey such appreciation to my dear mother upon her return.”

  Mary was terribly impressed by all of that, and couldn’t imagine being able to deliver such a diplomatic speech in the middle of the night, at the age of nine or otherwise.

  The princess continued: “I’m certain that my mother would approve, Sir John, and I shall be particularly grateful for your consideration of my personal safety.”

  “Safety?” Sir John may not have been sleepy, but he was easily confused.

  “Indeed,” interjected Mary. “Lady Ada here, no doubt with your assistance, has cornered the creature that has plagued the palace since goodness knows when.”