She propped the photograph up beside the candlestick and turned back to the Atlas. It was a sad bundle of crumpled, damp pages. She smoothed out the maps of Eastern Turkestan, Siam, the French Congo and the Society Islands and laid them in order. The fertile island of Zanzibar is famous for its cloves. Stella carefully flattened out Zanzibar and wondered if the cloves in the rather nasty Military Pudding at luncheon had come from there. She smoothed out a torn map of New South Wales. ‘The Emu has hair-like plumage and runs with extraordinary swiftness,’ she whispered to the woman and the two babies. They stared back at her, wide-eyed.
It was still raining. The Aunts snored. The clock in the parlour struck eleven, and then twelve. The candle burned down, flickering. At last, Stella flattened the final page of the Atlas and placed the neat bundle of paper back inside the cover. She picked up the photograph, looked at it once more, and then tucked it between the pages. She tied the Atlas together, like a parcel, with a length of hair ribbon.
She climbed off the bed and put her ear to the door. Everything was quiet.
She pulled her thick felt dressing gown on over her nightgown and put on her slippers. Mr Filbert’s package hung around her neck. She picked up the Atlas, blew out the candle and unlocked the door with Ada’s bedroom key.
It was quite dark. The Aunts were sleeping soundly.
She crept through their bedroom, opened the door to the parlour and silently slipped through.
The hotel was dark and quiet. Murmuring voices echoed from somewhere below. Stella felt uneasy. She crept along to the main staircase, leaned over cautiously and looked down. Mr Blenkinsop was at his desk, talking to one of the night footmen in a low voice. He pointed towards the front door, and the footman walked over to it and checked the lock.
Stella ducked behind the banister and retreated to the back staircase. She tiptoed down two flights of stairs and then along the shadowy second floor passageway towards Mr Filbert’s room.
Ahead, soft footsteps approached. Stella froze, her heart thumping. A mildewy-looking stuffed fox stood on a small table. She dropped to her hands and knees, crawled underneath and crouched in the shadow, clutching the Atlas and holding her breath as the footsteps came closer.
It was one of the hotel porters. As still as a stone, Stella watched his boots march past. She waited until she could not hear his footsteps any longer, then crawled out from under the table and continued along to Mr Filbert’s room. The door was unlocked. She opened it, slipped inside and closed it quietly behind her. The curtains were not drawn and the dim light from the window was sufficient for her to see that the room was empty. The bed was stripped. There was nothing inside the wardrobe but curling shelf paper.
Stella stood in the deserted room and considered. Where could Mr Filbert’s luggage be? Perhaps the police had taken his things away? Or perhaps they had been locked in a storeroom somewhere?
She glanced at the Atlas, remembering she had found it, months ago, on the rubbish heap behind the hotel, beyond the kitchen garden. Perhaps when the maids had cleaned out Mr Filbert’s room they had thrown some of his things there.
Stella opened the door, crept along the passageway to the stairs and down to the ground floor. She pushed open the baize door at the end of the passageway, slipped silently through and tiptoed along to the kitchen. Her slippers made no sound on the tiled floor. The kitchen was huge and cavernous and dark. Rows of enormous, gleaming pots and pans dangled in the shadows overhead. Steam pipes hissed and clanked. The clock ticked and a coal fire in one of the big ovens sputtered and popped.
Something touched her leg. She jumped. Two shining eyes looked up at her from the darkness. It was a kitchen cat. Stella stroked the cat’s arched back. ‘Good evening, cat,’ she whispered. The cat purred and butted its head against her leg.
She found candles and matches on a table. She lit a candle, set it in a brass holder and tiptoed along the passageway, past the sculleries, to the garden door. The cat padded beside her. The door was bolted at the top and the bottom. The top bolt moved easily, but the lower one was stiff. Stella put down the candle and the Atlas and used both hands. The bolt moved with a shrill squeak and she froze, listening, fearing the noise had woken someone. But nothing stirred.
She picked up the candle and the Atlas and opened the door. The night outside was cold and dark and drizzling. On one side loomed the laundry building and on the other, the high wall of the kitchen garden.
Stella hesitated. The night was somehow larger and darker than she had imagined it would be. Perhaps she should go back to bed. For a moment, she thought she would. But it was unlikely she would have a chance to slip away during the daytime, with the Aunts so watchful and angry. And tomorrow, the rubbish might be burned. Now was the only time.
She remembered poor Mr Filbert, lying dead in the conservatory. She took a deep breath, hugged the Atlas to her chest, gripped the candleholder firmly and stepped out into the rain and the darkness.
The cat mewed in an interested manner and followed her out, along the path and through the gate in the garden wall.
The kitchen garden was full of dark shapes, winter plants muffled with straw and sacking. Beside the path was a row of tall Brussels sprouts, like hunched old men, shrouded with hessian. Stella crept past them, and past dripping rows of leeks and rhubarb and cabbages. She ducked under a dangling dead flower head, the size of a fist.
Raindrops pattered on wet leaves. A shuffling sound came from somewhere nearby. She froze again and peered into the darkness, but could see nothing beyond the flickering circle of candlelight.
‘Probably a fox,’ she whispered to the cat. She quickened her pace. At the far end of the kitchen garden, behind a row of greenhouses, the rubbish heap was a piled dark shape, smelling strongly of wet horses and old vegetables. The candlelight revealed mounds of mouldy straw, rags, a clump of rotting cabbage leaves, a broken wicker basket and —
Stella gasped.
For a terrifying second, she thought a body lay sprawled on top of the rubbish heap. She held the candle higher, her trembling hand making the flame flicker. It was the scarecrow she had seen lying in the entrance hall. She took two shaking steps closer. It was broken and coming to pieces. It lay on its back, its arms outflung and its neck arched, its face turned towards her. A trail of twigs and leaves showed where it had been dragged and flung onto the heap. For a moment, she thought she saw the face move, the head lifting and turning. But it was only the candle’s shifting light glistening on the twisted, wet sticks.
She took a deep breath and crouched down, holding the candle close to the figure’s face. She could still make out the features, the cheekbones, nose and chin. She remembered Mr Filbert. His pale eyes and the way his skin seemed to stretch tightly across the bones of his face. Was this scarecrow poor Mr Filbert? How could that be possible?
One of the scarecrow’s hands was stretched towards her, the fingers curled. Stella reached out, her heart thudding. As she touched it, the hand seemed to open, the twigs shifting and untwisting. She gasped and almost dropped the candle.
A loose twig lay in the scarecrow’s palm. She picked it up and held it in the flickering candlelight. It was only a few inches long, and at the tip were several tiny, unfurling leaves.
Shuffling footsteps made her stiffen, her heart in her throat. She pushed the little twig under the knot of the ribbon that tied the Atlas together and stood up.
Someone coughed.
Not a fox.
Perhaps one of the servants had woken and seen her candle.
She blew it out. The darkness closed in around her. She froze and listened. She could hear nothing but rain.
She had to force herself to move. Beyond the corner of the greenhouse, the wet brick path gleamed faintly. She took a deep breath and set off back across the garden, walking as quickly as she could.
Nearby, more footsteps. Stella turned and strained her eyes against the darkness and the steady drizzle. She could see nothing.
She c
ontinued across the garden, half-running now. She was nearly there.
Suddenly, the footsteps were close behind. She spun around and opened her mouth to scream. The beam from a dark lantern shone in her face, dazzling her.
A voice said, ‘It’s her. It’s the nipper.’ A thick blanket was dropped over her head and rough hands snatched her off her feet. She twisted and struggled and tried to cry out.
The cat squawled.
A man cursed.
Stella again tried to shout, but her mouth was full of hairy, horse-smelling blanket and she could not breathe. She felt dizzy and then everything seemed to spin around and disappear.
Stella awoke in darkness.
She was wet and cold and lying on her side on a hard surface, wrapped tightly in a rough, stinking blanket. It was difficult to breathe. There was a jolting movement and the sounds of wheels on cobblestones and a horse’s hooves. Her arms and legs were pinned. She could feel a rope tied around her middle and around her ankles. She struggled but could barely move. She had never been more frightened in her life.
Close above her, a voice spoke in a hoarse whisper. ‘We’ll take the nipper straight to the Professor?’
‘That won’t fadge. It’s past midnight. He’ll be snoozing at Flanagan’s. We don’t want to wake the whole ken.’
‘A golden strike, he said, Scuttler.’
‘I know, Charlie. We’ll get the chink. We’ll stash her someplace safe. Out of earshot. I ain’t driving a cart around with a nipper tied up under the seat and the town crawling with flippin’ peelers.’
Her heart thumping, Stella recognised the voices. They were two of the masked men who had been searching the hotel with the Professor the night Mr Filbert had died. She remembered the whistling man she had seen, when she and the Aunts had set off for their promenade that afternoon. She had noticed his pale whiskers and his furtive look. He had seemed familiar, but she hadn’t recognised him then. Now, too late, she realised he was one of the thieves.
They had been watching the hotel, and they had taken their chance to search her bedroom for Mr Filbert’s package. But they hadn’t found it. So they had watched and waited for another opportunity. And she had walked right into their hands.
How could she have been so foolish?
‘Where’ll we stash her?’
The second voice said something that Stella didn’t catch and chirruped to the horse. The harness clinked and the cart turned and then they were moving downhill. She could hear waves breaking on the shingle. Where were they taking her?
The cart lurched to a stop.
‘Keep tout for the watchman.’
‘Old Joe? He’ll be sleeping off that stingo.’
After a moment, there was a clink of keys and a creaking metallic noise, as if a gate were being opened. Stella was lifted up and carried. She struggled and tried to call out, but the hairy, muffling blanket made her choke.
‘Stow that squeaking, girl.’
She was roughly slung over a shoulder. She recognised the clanking sound of the turnstiles and then the men’s footsteps clumping on the wooden boards of the pier. The damp blanket felt clammy and cold in the icy wind. After several minutes, keys jangled again and a door opened and then shut behind them. She was carried some distance up stairs, turning corners, up more stairs, and then another door was opened and she was dropped with a thump.
The rope was roughly untied and the blanket unwrapped and pulled away. She blinked, confused and dazzled by the lantern light. She was in a small room full of large objects, many of them covered in dustsheets. Faces stared from everywhere. A huge mask with round eyes and a lolling tongue goggled at her. An enormous painted sun leered and winked. A complicated-looking mechanical horse leaned against a pile of packing cases. She blinked again, her eyes stinging and her head swimming.
The two men loomed above her. She scrambled to her feet. ‘Wha— what do you want?’
‘You’ve hid the Professor’s gingabob,’ said the smaller man. ‘You tell us where you’ve stashed it, like a good little girl.’
Stella tried to stop her voice from shaking. ‘When my Aunts find I’m missing, the police will come looking for me.’
‘You tell us where it is, and we’ll take you right back. You’ll be snugabed and all’s rug.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Cheese it with that rigamarole,’ he said. ‘We’re going to fetch the Professor. And you’ll tell him where the little niggle thing is. Then Charlie and me will get our golden sovereign. Otherways, you’ll be nabbed in that muffler again and dropped in the sea, and nobody the wiser. Think on that, in the dark.’ He beckoned. ‘Come on, Charlie.’
The door slammed shut, the key turned in the lock and the footsteps tramped away.
Stella was alone.
She could feel all the fantastical creatures staring at her out of the darkness. She sank down onto the blanket and hugged her knees, shaking. This was awful. Did they really mean to tie her up and drop her in the sea? She imagined sinking down into the icy water. She did not want to drown.
And even if she gave them the silver bottle, would they let her go? The Professor had stabbed Mr Filbert, just like that. He didn’t mind killing people.
She clutched the little package that hung around her neck, under her dressing gown. Mr Filbert had asked her to keep it safe and she had promised she would. But how could she? The men would be back soon. The Professor would be with them. And then he would take it from her and there was nothing she could do about it.
Her eyes filled with tears.
The Aunts would not know she was gone until they found her bed empty in the morning. And that was hours away. There was no help coming. She was on her own.
Tears trickled down her face. She shivered and reached out in the darkness for the blanket. Her hand touched something familiar. It was the Atlas. It had been captured along with her. She picked it up and hugged it to her chest. It felt comforting and smelled of mildew and old wet paper. As she stroked its cover, she felt braver. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. There must be something she could do.
Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. She realised she could make out indistinct shapes. She could see the outline of the door.
She got to her feet and felt her way over to it. She groped for the handle and turned it back and forth uselessly. It was locked.
She looked around. High up on the opposite wall, a paler rectangle gleamed faintly. A window? Stella felt her way across the room, groped around and found a wooden packing case. She put her knee on it, climbed up, and then up again onto another case. She reached up to the window, felt around for the latch and shoved it open.
Dim light filtered into the room. Stella heaved herself up and poked her head out of the window. The night was cold but the rain had stopped and the moon shone from behind ragged clouds. Looking to the left, she could see nothing but darkness, but to the right she could see the gaslights on the pier and the twinkling lights of Withering-by-Sea.
She was in the theatre. She had often gazed at it from the Front, admiring its white domes and colourful fluttering flags. It perched right at the end of the pier, over the sea. She had longed to visit it. And now she was locked up inside it.
The little window was high up on one side of the theatre. It was small, but perhaps she could wriggle through it. But then what? She leaned further out and looked down. A long way below, dark waves frothed around the pier’s spindly legs. The water looked black and cold. Stella swallowed and clutched the windowsill, feeling dizzy.
Twenty feet below her, just above the water, was a narrow iron walkway. It was draped with seaweed and it looked extremely slippery. Could she climb out of the window and let herself down with a rope? If she slipped or let go of the rope, she would be in the water, and she could not swim. She watched a larger wave break over the walkway in a purposeful manner, and her stomach lurched.
She withdrew from the window and climbed back down. She found the ro
pe the men had tied her up with and measured it out with her hands. It would not be long enough.
She picked up the Atlas again and hugged it. The moonlight was too dim to read by, which was a pity because the Atlas was always encouraging. She remembered a page. On the map of North America there was a picture of a creature with a pointed nose, curling tail and many sharp-looking teeth. The Opossum is a most crafty animal, and when beset by pursuers, frequently deceives its foe and quietly makes its escape.
She would be crafty. As crafty as an opossum.
She coiled the rope and climbed back up to the window. She tied one end of the rope firmly around the window latch and pushed the rest out, letting it dangle outside. The end of the rope hung some distance above the walkway.
She climbed back down into the room, picked up the Atlas and crept behind the horrible mask with the goggling eyes. She pulled back the edge of a dustsheet. It was covering a large papier-mâché elephant on a kind of trolley. There was room to hide beneath the trolley, between the wheels. Clutching the Atlas, Stella wriggled her way underneath and let the dustsheet drop behind her. She was quite hidden.
She settled down to wait.
Stella lay in the dark with her cheek pressed to the dusty wooden floor. She could hear the sea outside and creaks and groans throughout the building. It was very cold. Despite wearing her dressing gown and slippers, she shivered. Her feet were like ice. Several times, she thought she heard footsteps or voices or distant, wailing music. But nobody came. She began to drift off to sleep.
She awoke with a jolt when a key turned in the lock and the door opened.
‘We put the nipper in here, Professor.’
‘Excellent,’ said the quiet voice that Stella remembered. Lantern light gleamed through the dustsheet. She held her breath.
‘Where —’
‘Cop that! She’s piked out the glaze.’
The light flickered and footsteps trod heavily across the room. It sounded as if someone were climbing up on the packing cases. There was a crash, then splintering wood and scrambling noises and some cursing.
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