‘We’re not going anywhere until you tell me where you hid MUMB. In case, you know, you die or something.’
‘Merv, I don’t believe you sometimes. Your MUMB’s just a stupid little gadget but mine’s a real live human being. Please can we hurry!’
‘MUMB means everything to me. I thought you understood.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
The sound of Merv’s sigh echoes down the tunnel.
‘OK. It’s in the dorm. In my trunk.’
‘You call that a hiding place?’
‘They won’t find it,’ I say. ‘It’s in an old pointe shoe, buried in the box. I sewed it up and everything.’
Merv’s monobrow does a little Mexican wave. ‘Oh. That’s OK then.’ Then he’s off, shuffling down the tunnel, muttering to himself, ‘Left, right. No – right, left . . . this would be so much easier with GPS . . .’
He’s still muttering as he hurries me along another secret tunnel and up another secret staircase. When we reach the top, my nose twitches. We appear to have surfaced in a cupboard. A dark, stinky cupboard stacked with shelves. I kick over a vegetable rack. Squeeze past a line of jars. We stumble into a steamy kitchen.
Merv doesn’t see Cook until it’s too late. Her saucepan clangs across the floor. A puddle of grey frogspawn splatters at her feet. ‘My semolina!’
Merv pulls on his white mask.
‘Sorry, Cook,’ I say.
‘Oh, it’s you, Milly!’ She tucks her hair into her hairnet. ‘You scared the stuffing out of me! Who’s that? He doesn’t look like a ballet dancer.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘His skills are cerebral.’
‘Poor love,’ says Cook.
Merv pulls down his mask and speaks in a very deep voice. ‘My apologies, Mrs Topping, but may I remind you, we are now in operation mode. You know what that means, don’t you?’
Cook zips her lips with her finger.
Merv shoves me out of the back door and into the snow. ‘Just saying that out loud hurt. I need to lie down.’
The cold cuts through my tutu and tights. ‘Were we s-supposed to end up in the k-kitchen?’
‘Must have gone left then right, not right then left.’
‘But how am I g-going to g-get home from here?’
‘It’s OK. I’ve just remembered something else I forgot.’ Merv unpadlocks his satchel. ‘I’ve got this.’
He pulls out something that looks suspiciously like a tutu.
‘A tutu? How’s that going to get me home?’
‘Put it on,’ says Merv. ‘You’ll see.’
The tutu is midnight-blue. Merv shakes it at me and silver stars twinkle in a cloud of netting. ‘Merv, it’s minus two. It’s very pretty, but I’m not undressing.’
‘Kydd, I went to GREAT LENGTHS to steal this from Madge. She’s got more eyes than “impossibilification” and that’s got six. And anyway, it’s the only way.’
‘OK. Don’t look.’
I swap my Lilac Fairy tutu for Madge’s. Merv’s still got his eyes closed as he helps me do it up. ‘Can’t you keep still for one second?’
‘I can’t help shaking, Merv. It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.’ I pull Mum’s evening bag across my shoulders.
‘Careful,’ says Merv. ‘The skirt is constructed of blades.’
‘Blades?’
‘Blades,’ says Merv, like this is perfectly normal. ‘Rotor blades. Engineered to work in a similar way to the blades of the Popovs’ helicopter. But these are fixed to the steel hoops of your tutu and made of advanced carbon fibre. That’s a lightweight material used in—’
‘Sorry Merv, you lost me at helicopter.’
The refectory lights flicker. ‘Hurry up, Kydd. It won’t be long before they realize you’re missing.’
‘But Merv, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FLY A HELICOPTER!’
‘You don’t need to. Trust me, I’ve programmed it to take you to the Bombardier’s house.’ Merv hits the ignition.
I start to vibrate. ‘Garghhh . . .’
‘Keep your arms folded!’ shouts Merv.
I hug my arms around me as the skirt of my tutu unfolds. Layers of blades begin to turn. They spin faster and faster.
My toes leave the ground. Bit by bit, my tutu whirrs me up in the air.
‘DON’T LOOK DOWN!’ shouts Merv.
I don’t need the warning. I wouldn’t look down if Superman flew past – I wouldn’t look down if Merv flew past in his underpants. I feel as small and fragile as a snowflake.
Up and up I jerk.
Up and up until my nose is runny.
Up and up until my eardrums pop.
Up and up until my eyeballs ache.
The wind takes me in its grasp. It spins me forward, back, and side to side. I swerve right, over Buckingham Palace. Left, over the Thames. London twinkles like a winter wonderland. It’s the most discombobulated I’ve ever been.
Just when I think I’m going to freeze to death, there’s another jerk, and I start to descend. But something’s wrong. This isn’t Grafton Street. My tutu shudders as I near the ground. The blades slow to a tick. They fold back into the skirt. The gap between me and the ground shrinks to nothing. I hit the snow with a thwump and my knees buckle under me.
Headlights blink on the other side of the common. I stagger to my feet, arrange me and my tutu into a more dignified position, and make my way home.
26
The Three Hundred and Fifty-ninth Day with No Mum
I run as fast as I can, which by this point in the evening is not very fast at all. Not only are my legs as wobbly as Cook’s Christmas trifle, but the pavement is getting more slippery by the second. I hike up my tutu and manage to only fall over once.
I end up zig-zagging through the side streets and darting from one doorway to the next until I reach the lane at the bottom of our back garden. I know Merv told me to go straight to the Bombardier’s, but I’m aching to be home. Plus, I really need a jumper. Climbing over the garden wall isn’t as easy as it looks and I drop to the other side with a bit of a crash.
The reflection in the kitchen door is alarming. The Lilac Fairy has gone. In her place is the wicked fairy. My hair is vertical, my nose is red, my tights are holier than a Christmas carol. Poor Madge’s flying tutu is in shreds.
I twiddle one of her bobby pins in the lock and, hey presto, it opens.
There’s not much call for jumpers in Buenos Aires at this time of year, so luckily there are lots in Bab’s wardrobe. My fingertips are too numb to feel for the softest one, so I grab the nearest and pull it over my head. Gratefully, I peel off my ballet shoes and sink against the row of squishy fake fur. I close my eyes and breathe in Bab’s smell. I’ll just give myself five minutes . . .
I wake up to the sound of a bell. Light leaks through the curtains.
Nooo. I shoot up in a panic, my broken heart galloping like a lame horse. How could I have fallen asleep?
‘Oh, it’s you, Milly,’ says the Bombardier when I answer the door. ‘Saw the light on last night and thought your grandmother’d got fed up of all that foreign food and come home early. Place has been very dull without her.’ He clears his throat. ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’
‘I, um, hurt my ankle,’ I fib. ‘So they let me come home early.’
There’s a mew between the Bombardier’s legs. A furry ginger tail brushes my shin.
I scoop Boris up and cover him in kisses. ‘Thanks for taking care of him.’
‘No problem at all. The old boy ignored me and I ignored him. Perfectly amicable arrangement. Actually, now that you’re home, I have something for you.’
The Bombardier rummages around in the pocket of his tweed jacket.
‘Chap from Scotland Yard called by a couple of weeks ago. Said a cleaner from the Opera House had been caught pilfering things from lost property. He thought these might be your mother’s.’
The Bombardier hands me a little brown paper bag. ‘Call in if you need anything, won’t you? Happy to
share a tin of minestrone, what?’
‘Thanks, Bombardier.’
‘And tell Catherine her old Villy’s looking forward to seeing her. Place has been dull without her. Jolly dull . . .’
Boris waits for me to sit at the kitchen table, then curls next to my feet. I empty the bag and out tumbles a silver charm. I gasp. It’s the little ballerina from Mum’s bracelet. But the bag’s not empty. Inside are two more charms I hadn’t even realized were missing. A ballet shoe and a crown.
I line them up in front of me. A ballerina, a ballet shoe and a crown.
Mum must have dropped them on purpose. She was trying to tell me something, but what?
A ballerina. A ballet shoe. A crown.
My brain leaps to its little brain feet.
Boris rolls over as I push my chair away. Upstairs, my ballet shoes are still where I left them. I bring them down and inspect the sole.
The maker’s mark is a small, black crown.
A ballerina. A ballet shoe. A crown.
Crown Maker.
The crown Mum drew in the programme had nothing to do with Korolev. She was trying to tell us something about Crown Maker.
But Mr Stubbs never mentioned a Crown Maker.
Boris slinks away and I watch his ginger tail disappear through the cat flap. A draught creeps up my neck and breathes in my ear.
Crown Maker made these shoes.
Crown Maker is Pip.
I have to go to Meekes.
I pull on Bab’s coat, jab Madge’s bobby pins in my hair and fling the bag across my shoulders. What is Pip up to? What’s Crown Maker up to?
He might be dangerous. Very.
As the Tube rattles along the Northern Line, I try and fit the pieces together. Mum must have seen Pip on the night she vanished. But Pip’s always so nice . . .
The Tube judders to a stop and I jeté from the carriage.
I emerge, blinking, into Covent Garden. The streets are strung with fairy lights. A jingle of Christmas songs escapes every doorway. I fight a Yuletide of shoppers and a rising sense of panic.
Did Mr Stubbs fall down the stairs, or was he pushed? Something tells me Edwina Meekes’s poltergeist had nothing to with the accidents in Meekes.
I reach the shop and spot a sign stuck inside the misty window.
DUE TO THE SCARLET SLIPPER BALLET PRIZE
AND THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS, MEEKES WILL
BE CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC FOR TWO WEEKS. WE
WOULD LIKE TO WISH THE THREE SCHOOLS
COMPETING THE VERY BEST OF LUCK.
I pause to summon my inner lion but only find a trembling kitten. When I press my nose against the glass, it’s dark inside. No Mrs Huntley-Palmer and no shoemakers. It’s not easy to twiddle a bobby pin with jittery fingers, but eventually the door tinkles open and I step inside.
The shop smells of silence and secrets. I figure if there are clues to be found they’ll be on Pip’s bench. Creak by creak I tiptoe down the staircase to the basement, and feel my way into Pip’s nook under the stairs.
In my pocket is Madge’s compact. I flip it open and wave the light across the bench. A pair of discarded pointe shoes lie on their side. Stamped on the soles under Willow’s initials are small black crowns. I tug on the drawer. It’s locked. I pull another bobby pin from my hair. When the drawer slides open, a Siberian chill runs down my neck.
Lying underneath an old newspaper is Mum’s bracelet.
How did it get here? Did Pip take it from Madame’s study? Did Pip smash Madame’s cabinet?
There’s nothing else in the drawer. I pop the bracelet in my bag and grope my way to Mr Stubbs’s bench. No clues there either. What should I do now? Go to Swan House? Tell Ms Celia what I know? But what do I know? All I’ve got are three charms and an old programme. That’s not proof of anything. I need to find Pip. I need to find Crown Maker.
There’s a scratching sound in the darkness. Little claws on the wooden boards. Mice . . . rats? I pause. There’s something else too. Not a scratch, or a squeak – a moan.
My skin bristles. My nose twitches. My ears flap like a baby elephant’s.
Edwina Meekes’s ghost . . .
I dodge the benches, trip down a step and find myself weaving around a room of sleeping sewing machines. At the back, another door leads down a narrow corridor. Summoning all of my pluck, I creep towards the sound. At the end of the corridor is a small musty room with a chair, a table and a desk lamp draped in cobwebs. Against the far wall is a big, black cupboard.
The moaning stops.
I pause before fumbling with the heavy brass latch. When I throw open the door, a roll of satin thumps to the floor in a cloud of dust. My heart thumps with it. I shine the light inside the cupboard and sneeze. Nothing inside but a dead moth with broken wings.
But the sound came from this room, I’m sure of it.
I look up at the ceiling. Down at the floor. Under my feet are flagstones and a rusty metal grate covering an old drain.
The light from the compact wiggles through the grate. When it falls on a silhouette below, I learn a valuable lesson. Screaming is impossible when you are genuinely scared out of your wits.
‘Drone on,’ I say in a squeaky whisper. The compact begins to whirr. ‘Go down,’ I say. It hovers over the drain, then rolls to its side and slips through the grate.
Light spills through the gap. My hand flies to my mouth. Gazing up are the biggest, sparkliest eyes I’ve ever seen.
My fingers squeeze through the gap. My voice squeezes through too.
‘Mum? Is that you?’
The woman shakes off the rope around her wrists and tears the tape from her mouth.
Her voice conjures up bedtime stories and scarlet slippers. ‘Milly, it can’t be.’
‘Mum!’
‘I thought you were him! He doesn’t know I can free my hands. Oh, Milly!’
‘Clever girl,’ says Mum, when I explain how I found her. ‘But you’ve got to get out of here, sweetheart. He’ll be back at any second.’
I press my face against the grate. ‘You mean Pip, don’t you? Why’s he done this to you?’
Mum is on tiptoes, just out of reach. ‘His real name is Filipp Popov. He kidnapped me on the night of the Scarlet Slippers. Oh, Milly. He said he’d kill you if I didn’t help him.’
‘Say that again – I thought you said Filipp Popov?’
‘Yes, darling. Pip is Filipp. I’ll explain everything later. But now you have to run or he’ll kill us both.’
I sit back on my heels. Filipp Popov with the mousey hair and mousey teeth is Pip.
‘How can that be? Why didn’t I see it?’
‘No one recognized him, sweetheart. It’s not your fault.’
I shake my head. It doesn’t make sense, unless . . . ‘Does Pip have anything to do with the mole?’
‘I don’t know, darling. I was gathering evidence, but it was encrypted. I didn’t get the chance to pass it on to Swan House.’
I tug on the bars. ‘Mum, I’m not leaving without you. There must be some way I can get you out.’
‘It’s impossible, Milly. The old cellar was bricked up years ago. The only way in and out is through the grate . . .’
‘I’ll find something! Meekes is full of tools.’ I tear back through the narrow corridor and start tugging on drawers.
‘It’s no good,’ Mum calls. ‘Filipp’s thought of everything. He took all the tools away.’
I scrabble through drawer after drawer but all I find are thimbles and thread.
I run back. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. We have to think of something else.’
‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Don’t get upset. You wouldn’t have been able to open it anyway. Filipp bolted down the grate when I tried to escape. Then he punished me by sending you that dreadful chocolate shoe. Thank God you didn’t eat it.’
‘It was Pip who gave me the poisoned chocolate? Why does he hate us so much, Mum?’
‘It’s not just us, sweetheart. He hates his family
, Swan House, the entire ballet world. He had two left feet, you see. Imagine being the only Popov who couldn’t dance. His mother hid him away and treated him dreadfully.’
No wonder he destroyed the Popov cabinet.
‘When he failed to win a Scarlet Slipper he went quite mad. He ran away and changed his identity. He persuaded Korolev to take him on before coming back to London. Goodness knows what he learnt in Casova, and now he intends to dance in the Scarlet Slippers . . . Milly, when are they?’
‘You don’t know? The final dances are tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Mum’s eyes widen. She reaches up. Her fingers are so, so close to mine. ‘Milly, listen carefully – he said he was going to plant a bomb. He said he was going to blow up everyone who’d rejected him. Oh, sweetheart, he said he was going to take his revenge on the last night of the competition. You’ve got to— No, wait!’ Mum’s voice thickens. ‘It’s too late!’
The bell upstairs tinkles. ‘Drone off,’ says Mum as she fumbles with the rope. Everything goes black. She whispers through the darkness. ‘Quickly, Milly, hide under the table. And don’t make a sound.’
Mum reapplies her tape and I crawl under the table. The staircase creaks. Footsteps pad along the workshop. I peek between the table legs and even though my stomach is empty, it wants to be sick.
Lying next to the cupboard is a bright-red roll of satin.
27
The Dying Swan
I hold my breath as Filipp’s shadow stretches across the flagstone floor. One step further and he’s bound to see the satin lying where it shouldn’t be. I may as well be waving a flag. Here I am. Come and kill me!
A noise from behind him makes me jump so hard I almost bang my head on the table.
It’s an old-fashioned telephone.
Filipp pauses. He sighs. He turns around.
I breathe out and listen as Filipp says, ‘Hello, Meekes the Shoemaker’s,’ in a friendly Pip voice.
While I’ve got the chance, I scramble between the table legs, heave the roll of satin back into the cupboard then dive back under the table.
Filipp is still chatting. ‘Yes, Mrs Huntley-Palmer, I’ve delivered the Scarlet Slipper trophy. Like I said, you can trust me to lock up for the holidays. You too, Mrs Huntley-Palmer. Happy Christmas.’
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