Dead.
And she had his little package. Hide it. Keep it safe, he had said. But what was she to do with it now?
The breakfast room was buzzing with anxious chatter, hammering noises and the sounds of broken furniture being dragged around. Stella ate stolidly her breakfast of plain porridge, bread with a thin scrape of butter and weak milky tea (Aunt Deliverance believed rich foods such as jam and sugar and eggs were unwholesome for children) and listened to the conversations at the neighbouring tables. Many of the residents were twittering like startled birds, saying things like, Goodness gracious me and Who would have thought?
‘You were so very heroic, General Carruthers,’ said Lady Ogilvy in a breathy, wavering voice.
‘Took to their heels, blasted goose-livered Bashi-Basouks,’ said the general, attacking his breakfast bloater with enthusiasm.
‘Had the blighters on the run, ha-ha,’ said Colonel Fforbes. He poked a devilled kidney into his mouth and chewed it up.
‘It’s all very unsettling,’ said Aunt Temperance. Her rolling eye swept around in an agitated manner. ‘That poor foreigner.’
Aunt Condolence’s Particular Patent Corset twanged as she swallowed a big mouthful of ham and eggs. ‘Most unsettling,’ she said.
Stella put down her spoon. Should she say something? Should she tell them about the Professor? She started to say, ‘I saw —’
‘Silence, child,’ snapped Aunt Deliverance. ‘There is no necessity for vulgar chitchat.’ She took an angry bite from a triangle of toast and marmalade, then added, ‘And do not slouch.’
After breakfast, it began to rain and so the Aunts could not set out for their daily promenade along the Front. Stella escaped to her bedroom, shut the door and pulled Mr Filbert’s little package out from under her mattress. The string was knotted tightly. She worked at it with her fingers and then her teeth and at last she managed to loosen it. Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped the oilcloth and uncovered a smaller package, wrapped in a piece of crinkled yellowish paper. She glanced towards the door, but she could still hear the Aunts’ voices in the parlour, disapproving of the weather. She was safe for the moment. She unfolded the paper quickly.
Inside was a small bottle. It was round and silvery, perhaps two inches across, and slightly iridescent, like a fish scale, or the mother-of-pearl back of her hairbrush. Etched into the surface of the bottle was a curved pattern, like the coils of a serpent.
The little bottle was corked and sealed with red wax. It was heavier than it looked and as smooth as glass. She held it up to the window. It sparkled in the greyish daylight. She shook it and heard a whispering noise, as if something were slithering over shingle. Dark shapes flickered across the wallpaper. A sinuous shape seemed to move inside the bottle, but it was difficult to see. It was both dark and silvery at the same time. Perhaps it was only a shadow.
It was beautiful, but it made her skin prickle.
Mr Filbert had tried to protect it. He had asked her to keep it safe. And she had promised.
And now he was dead.
She folded her fingers over it and held it tightly in the palm of her hand.
It rained all morning. Raindrops streamed down the window as Stella practised the pianoforte. Aunt Condolence sat beside her and rapped her smartly on the knuckles every time she played a wrong note, which was often. The piece she was learning, ‘Waltz for the Pretty Flowers’, seemed even harder than usual, and by the end of it, Aunt Condolence was furious and Stella was in tears.
After luncheon (Mock Turtle Soup, Collared Eels, Pickled Tongue and Vegetable Marrows, Cabinet Pudding and Custard), the rain stopped and the Aunts were able to take their promenade along the Front. Pale sunshine glinted on the little white-capped waves, but the breeze was cold and damp, and dark clouds loomed in the distance. Aunt Deliverance’s beady black eyes peered out from a cocoon of shawls and blankets. Ada pushed the Bath chair. Aunt Temperance and Aunt Condolence walked beside it and Stella followed behind.
The Aunts always walked down the hill from the Hotel Majestic and then along the Front, past all the smaller hotels, the pleasure gardens and the pier, all the way to the lighthouse. Then they turned and walked back.
Stella liked looking at the sea. It was sometimes grey, sometimes greyish-blue or green, and often there were sailing ships or steamers. The Front was generally busy. There were many convalescents huddled in invalid chairs, old ladies with tiny dogs and nursemaids pushing perambulators full of muffled-up babies.
Occasionally, a young gentleman hurtled along on a high-wheeled bicycle, and the Aunts and all the other old ladies twittered disapprovingly. Sometimes a file of neatly dressed girls from Miss Mallard’s Academy for Young Ladies walked past with a grim-looking governess, and that was always interesting. Stella had often thought it would be agreeable to do her lessons with other girls. But, from the look of them, the girls from Miss Mallard’s Academy had a miserable time. They walked two by two, their gloved hands folded primly and their eyes down, and they never whispered to each other or smiled.
Her favourite part of the promenade was the pier. It stretched out over the sea, the little waves frothing around its elegant, spindly legs. It had curly lampposts, which seagulls liked to perch on, and stalls selling cockles and pies and vividly coloured sweets. Cheerful, tinny music came from a barrel organ and the steam-powered merry-go-round. At the end of the pier was a theatre. It had white domes and fluttering flags. It looked like a palace.
Stella longed to walk out along the pier. But it cost a penny, which she did not have, and Aunt Deliverance said it was Quite Vulgar, so she could only gaze from the Front as they walked past every day. At the entrance to the pier was a gate with turnstiles. The walls on either side were covered with posters and playbills, pasted over each other.
Aunt Deliverance said, ‘Don’t dawdle, child,’ as they walked briskly along the Front, past the private villas and boarding houses and fishing boats, all the way to the shipwreck memorial (Erected to commemorate the Calamitous Wreck of the Charlotte, 1752, 140 souls lost) below the lighthouse. The shipwreck memorial marked the edge of Withering-by-Sea. Beyond it lay the marsh, which stretched as far as the horizon.
Ada heaved the Bath chair around and they started back.
As they drew level with the pier again, an autocratic voice called, ‘Good afternoon,’ and an elderly lady heaved into sight. It was Miss Ollerenshaw, an acquaintance of Aunt Deliverance, a resident of the Hotel Imperial. Miss Ollerenshaw wore a ruffled black dress, a hat decorated with a huge swaying bunch of curly black feathers, a black fur tippet and several strings of jet beads. Her maid walked behind her, clutching the leads of three yapping Scottish terriers and carrying a pile of rugs and shawls and an enormous black umbrella.
Stella made a bob and said, ‘How do you do, Miss Ollerenshaw,’ and after a minute or two (as the Aunts and Miss Ollerenshaw talked about the weather, and then about how they had to watch the maids to ensure they did their work properly, and then about the scandalous events at the Hotel Majestic), she drifted away and gazed at the posters.
There was a picture of the tiger. It had staring eyes and impressive teeth and claws. Stella was admiring it when another poster caught her attention. With a jolt, she recognised the thin face staring out of the picture. It was the Professor. He was dressed in black. He was standing beside a pillar, which held a rabbit and a bowl of goldfish, and on his other side was a draped curtain. He had one hand raised and seemed to have lightning shooting out of it. Stella read:
Stella stared blankly at the poster. The Professor was a magician. It made him seem even more frightening and mysterious.
She thought of Mr Filbert’s silver bottle, hidden safely under her mattress at the hotel. What could it be that was so important to him? Perhaps he would do magic to try to discover where it was. Perhaps he was doing magic right now.
As she pondered this disconcerting thought, she heard a whimper. It sounded like a seagull or a cat. She looked around. There was
nothing close by. She heard the sound again. It was a kind of sob and it seemed to come from under her feet. She walked to the railing, leaned over and looked down at the beach.
A small figure crouched in the shadow under the pier. His arms were wrapped around his knees and his head was down.
Stella looked over her shoulder. The Aunts were still deep in conversation with Miss Ollerenshaw. Aunt Condolence was pointing towards her stomach and making a twisting gesture with her fingers. They had started on the topic of their health, which would certainly keep them occupied for some time.
Stella hung over the railing and called, ‘Are you all right?’
He looked up. She recognised him. He was the thin, pale boy who had been with the Professor at the hotel. His face seemed very white against the dark shadow under the pier, and there were black smudges beneath his eyes. He shrugged miserably and looked down again.
Stella asked, ‘How did you get down there?’
He didn’t answer, but she spied a rusty ladder bolted to the sea wall. She looked back at the Aunts and Miss Ollerenshaw. Aunt Condolence was making a vigorous gesture with her hands as if she were wringing out a dishcloth, and the others were nodding. They were clearly still discussing Aunt Condolence’s insides.
Stella pulled off her gloves. ‘I’m coming down,’ she said, and climbed over the railing.
Stella climbed down the rusty ladder. Her feet crunched on the shingly beach. The tide was in and there was only a narrow strip of sand. The waves made a rhythmic hissing, tinkling noise, turning over the pebbles and frothing around the legs of the pier.
She scrunched over to where the boy was sitting. He was hugging his knees, looking out to sea. He wore a thick coat and a grimy woollen scarf.
‘I’m Stella. Are you all right?’
‘Ben.’ He shrugged.
‘I saw you last night. In the hotel.’
‘I know.’
She sat down beside him on the pebbles. It was cold in the shadow under the pier. She hugged her coat around herself and said, ‘You were looking into the ink.’ She cupped her hands together.
‘Scrying.’ He sniffed miserably.
She waited for him to say more, and when he did not, she asked, ‘What’s scrying?’
‘I can see things in the ink.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Things that have happened. Whatever he tells me. He makes me do it.’ He rubbed his hands over his face. His fingers were still stained black. After a moment, he said, ‘I saw that gentleman hide the little thing in that pot.’
‘And now he’s dead,’ said Stella.
Ben nodded. ‘I know. I saw. It was horrible.’ His voice wavered. ‘I couldn’t help it.’ He put his head down, his shoulders shaking.
She reached over and patted his arm. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
He shrugged without lifting his head.
She patted him again. They sat together in silence for several minutes. Stella wasn’t sure what to say.
There was a squeak and a tiny black kitten poked its face out of the folds of Ben’s scarf. Stella touched the kitten’s head with one finger.
Ben lifted his tear-stained face. ‘Shadow,’ he said, and gently unhooked the kitten’s claws from the entangling scarf. ‘She was sleeping. She’s my cat.’
‘Shadow.’ Stella stroked the little kitten. She was quite black with sea-green eyes. She arched her back and rubbed her chin against Stella’s hand, then bit her finger, quite hard.
‘Ouch!’ said Stella.
‘Found her in the street, all by herself. My gran had a black cat just like her. She’s clever. I’m going to train her to do tricks,’ said Ben. ‘She likes you. She can tell you’re fey.’
‘Does she?’ asked Stella doubtfully, sucking her finger. Then she said, ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She can tell you’re fey.’ He looked at her. His eyes were a peculiar pale grey. ‘You know. Fey. Uncanny. Cats can tell.’ The kitten scrambled up onto his shoulder, purring. He stroked her and she made some high-pitched squeaking noises and bit him on the ear. He went on, ‘Fey. Like me.’ And when Stella shrugged, he said, ‘You must be. I knew straight away. Because the hand o’ glory didn’t make you sleep. It don’t work if you’re fey.’
Stella shrugged again. ‘I don’t know what you mean. What’s fey?’
Ben wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He said, ‘You know. My gran said fey is like an echo of the old magic. Not powerful, any more. Not like back when there was fairies and giants and sorcerers and that. Just a tiny trickly bit. Some people say touched. Second sight. You can see things that ain’t there.’
‘I can’t do anything like that,’ said Stella.
Ben shrugged. ‘P’r’aps it’s something else with you. It goes in your family.’
Stella shook her head. ‘No,’ she said.
‘For me, my gran was part selkie. I get it from her.’
‘What’s selkie?’
‘They were seal people. They could change into seals, in the sea. From Scotland. They could see the future in still water, Gran said.’
Stella felt the back of her neck prickling. She suddenly remembered Aunt Condolence saying, Disgraceful, even for a half — And she had stopped. But what had she been about to say? A half what?
Stella said firmly, ‘But there’s no such thing as seal people. And nobody can see into the future.’
‘Not any more,’ said Ben. ‘Of course not. But in the old days. Long ago.’ He tickled Shadow’s chin. ‘Like with me, I’m not a selkie, but I’m fey. I can’t turn into a seal, I can’t see the future, but I can sometimes see things that happened, in the ink. My gran and me, we had an act. She did scrying with a glass ball. She learned me. We told fortunes.’ Ben gave a sudden grin. ‘It was a good act.’ He said in a whispery, foreign voice, ‘Seven crows will fly over your roof. A toad will cross your path. A dark stranger will surprise you. It was good. But then she died, and I went in the orphanage.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘It was terrible there. And then the Professor come and he took me away. He knew our act, he remembered me. He needs me for scrying. He wants that little bottle.’
‘Why does he want it? Do you know what’s in it?’
Ben said, ‘Don’t open it.’
‘I won’t —’
‘No.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Don’t open it. It’s bad. He found out about it in an old book. In Latin. The bottle was buried under this big old tree, out on the marsh. Where that village got drowned. You know?’
Stella nodded. She had heard from Polly of the frightening story of the village that had drowned in the marsh. And how the church bells still rang on stormy nights, even though the church had been empty for years and the bells were gone.
Ben continued, ‘We went out there at night. Cut down the tree and dug up the roots to find it. But that old cove took it.’
‘Mr Filbert?’
‘I don’t think that’s his real name. Dryad, the Professor called him. He came out of nowhere, when we was digging up the roots of the tree, and he grabbed the bottle and he scarpered. The Professor lost him, but then he found he was in that hotel, and so we went there. But the cove wouldn’t say where he hid it. So the men looked for it, while the hand o’ glory was lit and everyone was sleeping. Then the Professor made me scry. He was in a right fury when he didn’t find it in that pot. He’s got a sword in that stick, and he just pulled it out and stabbed the cove right in the chest.’ Ben rubbed his hands over his face again, leaving more black marks. ‘It was horrible.’
‘I’ve got —’
‘Don’t tell me.’ He clutched her arm. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got it or where it is. Don’t tell me nothing. If I know, I’ll tell him. He’ll make me tell him.’
‘It’s just —’
‘No.’ He let go of her arm. ‘Don’t tell me. He’ll make me scry, anyway, and then I’ll see where it is, and I’ll tell him. You can’t trust me at all.’ He looked out to sea. His expression was bleak.
He shook his head miserably. ‘He’d come after me.’ Then he added in a broken voice, ‘I ain’t brave enough.’
‘The police are coming today. Perhaps they’ll arrest him.’
‘He ain’t worried about them.’
She said, ‘I saw the poster. He’s a magician.’
Ben nodded. ‘On the stage.’
‘Can he really do magic?’ asked Stella.
Ben shook his head. ‘It’s just tricks,’ he said. ‘Mirrors and clockwork. He builds things. He’s clever.’
‘What about the hand of glory?’ asked Stella. ‘That wasn’t a trick.’
‘No,’ said Ben with a shudder. ‘He collects things too. Bad things. That’s made out of the hand of a hanged man. It makes people sleep. And you can only put out the flames with milk or blood.’
Stella remembered the blood in the puddle and the sputtering flames. She nodded. ‘Is he fey, the Professor? It didn’t make him go to sleep.’
‘That’s because it was him what lit it. He ain’t fey. It’s just tricks he builds and old things he collects.’
‘Where are you staying?’ she asked.
He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Boarding house back there. Flanagan’s, it’s called. Do you live in that hotel?’
She nodded. ‘With my Aunts. They drink the water and have baths. For their health.’
‘Drink the water?’
‘It’s special water. It’s revolting. It comes up out of the ground, underneath the hotel. It’s famous. People drink it for their health.’ Stella giggled. ‘Before this, in another hotel, they only ate white things, like turnips and milk puddings and tapioca, and they had to drink potato juice for breakfast. And before that, we were up in the mountains. They had cold air baths, and there was an Influence Machine, and they had to sleep with their windows open. Sometimes the snow came in.’
Withering-by-Sea Page 4