Mr Capelli took an enamel mug from the mantelpiece, poured some of the contents of the black bottle into it and offered it to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said. It smelled powerfully of orange peel and herbs. She tasted it doubtfully. It burned her mouth and her throat, but it warmed her insides.
‘What is it?’ she asked. She took another sip.
‘A most splendid tonic.’ Mr Capelli sat back down in his chair and took a swig from the bottle. ‘It is most healthy for the stomach. It is from my home. The island of San Marco. You will not have heard of it.’
‘Well, yes, I think . . .’ Stella untied the ribbon from the Atlas and searched through the loose pages. San Marco was one of a handful of islands scattered across a blue sea. In the margin, there was a picture of a ruined tower on a rocky hill above a harbour. She read out, ‘Olive, orange, fig and pomegranate are grown, and abundant grapes, which are made both into wine and raisins.’
She passed the page to Mr Capelli. He looked at the map of the little island and his eyes sparkled. ‘This is most splendid!’ He pointed. ‘Here is my home. One day, when we are rich, we will return and buy a farm. My cats and I will sit in the sun. It is most dreadfully cold in this country. Too cold for me. Too cold for my cats.’ He passed the page back to Stella.
She looked at the picture. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ He wiped his eyes and took another drink. After a moment, he said, ‘So, Stella Montgomery.’ He gestured expansively with the bottle. ‘Tell me everything.’
Stella said, ‘I need to get away from here. I need to get home. But the Professor is watching the front of the theatre. Is there another way out?’
Mr Capelli shook his head. ‘Unless you can swim.’
Stella shivered, remembering the black, icy waves.
‘Bene. So. These men, they are looking for you. They will not find you. And then, perhaps, they will leave.’ Mr Capelli gestured, as if flinging something away. ‘You will stay here, where it is safe. We will wait, and then I will go and see. And you are hungry, yes?’
Stella realised she was extremely hungry. She nodded.
‘I have toast and butter. And a splendid herring.’ He opened a small cupboard and pulled out a loaf of bread, a lump of butter wrapped in paper and a smoked herring. He cut a piece of bread and passed it to Stella with a toasting fork. She threaded the bread carefully onto the fork and held it over the coals.
He fed little pieces of fish to the cats. He said seriously, ‘I do not like the Professor. He is most frightful. I will not — what is the word? I will not betray you to him. But stealing from him, it is wrong, and it is most dangerous.’
‘No, no. I didn’t steal anything. It wasn’t like that at all.’ Stella looked at Mr Capelli. Should she tell him about Mr Filbert? She thought she could trust him. Perhaps he could help. She inspected the bread and turned it over. She said, ‘Someone, a gentleman, asked me to look after something. To keep it safe. And I promised. But the Professor wants it.’ She hesitated, and then put down the toasting fork, pulled out the little pocket from beneath her dressing gown and unwrapped Mr Filbert’s little silver bottle. ‘Look,’ she said.
Mr Capelli took it from her. ‘What is it?’ he asked, turning it over in his hands. ‘What is inside?’
There was a faint slithering sound, something moved inside the bottle, and dark shadows flickered and swam across the walls. One of the cats hissed suddenly, and Stella jumped.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think it’s something magic, from the olden days.’
He studied it for a moment, his head on one side. ‘It is very old,’ he said. He handed it back to her. She wrapped it up and returned it to the pocket and picked up the toasting fork again.
‘If I don’t get home tonight, my Aunts will be very angry.’
‘You have many Aunts?’ he asked.
‘Three Aunts. They live in the Hotel Majestic. Up on the cliff. Those men brought me here. But I escaped from them. The Professor’s beetle was chasing me. The Professor put my hair inside it and it came after me.’
‘Never, never leave your hair. Or your — what is the word,’ he pointed to his fingernails, ‘these cuttings, anywhere. It is not safe, not at all. Me, I always burn them. And blood, of course, is the most dangerous of all. So, this gentleman. What of him?’
‘He is dead.’
Mr Capelli froze with his bottle halfway to his lips. ‘Gran Dio! Dead?’
Stella nodded. ‘Yes. The Professor stabbed him. He stabbed him!’
‘Tell me everything, from the start,’ said Mr Capelli.
Stella thought for a moment, putting things in order, and then she told him the whole story. Everything that had happened, from when she had first seen Mr Filbert hide the little package in the Chinese urn in the conservatory.
Mr Capelli listened without interrupting. When she had finished, he said, ‘The Professor stabbed the gentleman. And then the gentleman turned into sticks?’
Stella nodded. ‘Yes. I think so.’ She remembered the little twig. ‘See.’ She took it from the ribbon that held the Atlas together and held it out to him.
‘The gentleman turned into sticks,’ repeated Mr Capelli thoughtfully, holding the twig in the light of the lamp. ‘This is nocciloa. What is the word? Hazel wood.’ He smiled at Stella. ‘If you plant this in the ground, it will grow into a hazel tree. In time.’ He passed the twig back to her. ‘When I was a boy, my nonna, my grandmother, told me stories of trees. We would leave gifts, almond cakes and wine, in May and at midsummer. For the spirits who lived within the trees, you understand. And if you cut a tree, an oak or an elm, or a cypress, you would ask the spirit first. It is dangerous to cut a tree without asking.’
As he spoke, he took the toast from Stella, buttered it, laid a piece of smoked herring on top and passed it back.
She took a bite. It was salty and crispy and delicious. She threaded another slice of bread onto the toasting fork and held it over the fire.
Mr Capelli said, ‘The hazel trees were for protection. Tie two twigs together,’ he gestured with his fingers, ‘like this, in a cross, with red thread and nail it above the door, and the house is protected from lightning. Put a twig in your shoe, yes? You will have a safe journey, protected from witches. A baby’s cradle is made from hazel wood, and the baby is protected from the folletti, the fairies. And if you have a treasure, you might bury it under a hazel tree. The spirit in the tree, he will protect your treasure.’
‘Did you see the spirits? What were they like?’
‘No, no. This is not now. This was many, many years ago. Now, they are all gone. Or perhaps sleeping like old men and women. But on San Marco, we remember them, although they are no longer there.’ He shrugged. ‘My nonna told me of when she was a little girl. And there was a man in her village, his grandmother was an elm tree. My nonna knew him when he was very, very old. He lived a hundred years. And when he died and he was laid in the church, he changed into wood. Into an old, old branch of an elm tree.’
Stella looked into the fire and thought about Mr Filbert. Could he have been the spirit of a tree? Of a hazel tree? She tried to remember exactly what Ben had said, about the Professor cutting down a tree at night and digging underneath. Had the silver bottle been hidden under a hazel tree?
‘The Professor called him Dryad,’ she said, remembering.
‘That is a name for a tree spirit.’ Mr Capelli nodded. ‘They have many names. That one is from the Greeks. From the very ancient times. Many, many years ago. Then, they say, the tree spirits were tall and strong, and people were fearful. But now the old ones, the folletti, have faded away, and instead we have the modern world of factories and steam engines and the telegraph.’
Stella remembered Mr Filbert. How very old he had been. How his fingers had been like dry twigs, his skin had seemed almost green and when she had touched his face, it had felt rough, like the bark of a tree.
She blinked. She smelled smoke. The toast wa
s burning. She must have closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Oh no! I’m so sorry, Mr Capelli.’
He laughed. ‘It is not so dreadful.’ He spread the blackened toast with butter and crunched into it. ‘It has more taste. And you are tired. It is most frightfully late.’ He jumped up from the chair and bustled about the room, collecting an armful of cushions and rugs. ‘You will be splendid here, behind the screen? Then if we are disturbed, you are hidden.’ He laid the cushions together and shook out a red tartan rug. ‘You prepare yourself for sleep. I will go and see if the Professor is still there. I will lock the door. You will be quite safe.’
‘Thank you, Mr Capelli,’ she said. She felt so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open. She stumbled across to the washstand, splashed some water onto her face and yawned. Shrugging off her dressing gown and slippers, she lay down on the cushions and pulled the rug over herself. Alfredo stalked across the top of her, turned around twice and curled up in the crook of her knees, purring. Another cat joined them, and a third.
Stella thought about the Aunts. In the morning, they would find her gone. But there was nothing she could do. She was very sleepy. She shut her eyes.
When Mr Capelli came back into the room, she was almost asleep.
‘The Professor is still there, but he did not see me,’ he said. ‘He is watching the front of the theatre. The main door and the stage door. But you are safe here.’
Stella imagined the Professor’s tall figure and gaunt, yellow face. Watching and waiting.
She curled up and hugged the Atlas to her chest. She dropped into sleep, warm and safe, surrounded by purring cats.
Stella awoke in daylight and, for a moment, she did not remember where she was. Then she smelled toast and heard someone humming a tune. She pushed back the rug, wriggled out from underneath a couple of sleeping cats and sat up.
The humming stopped. ‘You are awake.’ Mr Capelli poked his head around the screen. He held the toasting fork in one hand and a herring in the other. Alfredo lay across his shoulders, his green eyes fixed on the herring.
‘Good morning,’ said Stella. She rubbed her eyes and yawned.
‘Yes, yes. Good morning,’ said Mr Capelli. ‘Or good afternoon, perhaps? You sleep well?’
‘What time is it?’ asked Stella, horrified. She scrambled to her feet and looked around for her dressing gown and slippers.
Mr Capelli disappeared for a moment, then appeared again, without the herring but holding a watch. ‘It is nearly one o’clock. You sleep for many, many hours.’ Alfredo jumped from his shoulders and shot out of sight. ‘No! Alfredo. No! Cattivo!’ Mr Capelli disappeared again, and there was some scuffling and an annoyed mioaw. He appeared, beaming, with the herring clutched to his chest. ‘I put it down for one second only,’ he said. ‘But always he watches me. He is most clever. And most naughty.’ He waggled a finger at Alfredo. ‘No fish for you! Well, perhaps a tiny bit. There.’ He broke off a generous piece of the herring, gave it to Alfredo and stroked his head.
He turned to Stella. ‘I will show you the water closet. And we will eat.’
‘But —’ Stella started to say.
‘The Professor is still watching,’ said Mr Capelli, feeding pieces of fish to the other cats. ‘I take my cats out for a walk early, for milk. And he is there, at the front of the theatre. And those men, they follow me. They are most suspicious. And later, I creep down and spy and he is still watching. A mouse could not escape!’
‘Still watching?’ Stella’s heart sank. ‘Oh no.’
‘Yes, yes, it is most frightful. But I have a splendid plan.’ Mr Capelli waved the toasting fork at Stella. ‘And I will tell you it while we eat.’
She pulled on her dressing gown and slippers. Mr Capelli opened the door a crack and looked out. Stella could hear footsteps and voices and someone playing a pianoforte and laughing. Mr Capelli beckoned to her and pointed to a door at the end of the passage.
‘That is the water closet,’ he said.
It was tiny, filthy and extremely cold. Gusts of icy sea air blew in through the gaps between the floorboards. Looking down the lavatory, Stella was startled to find it open to the sea. A long way below, greyish-green waves surged and frothed. A large dark fish swam past.
She used the lavatory quickly, pulled the heavy iron lever (starting a disconcerting series of clanks and bangs and trickling noises) and hurried back to the warmth of Mr Capelli’s dressing room.
‘You will have toast, yes?’ he said. ‘And milk.’ He passed her a piece of toast and herring and a mug of milk. He poured milk into a bowl and placed it on the hearthrug. The cats clustered around to lap. Mr Capelli smiled at them fondly and took a swig from his black bottle.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You know, we have a big splendid show today, at two o’clock? A matinee. And the Professor also is performing. And all those men, they work in the theatre. They will be busy, busy pulling ropes and working the limelights, yes?’
Her mouth full, Stella could only nod.
Mr Capelli gestured expansively. ‘So, it is easy. You can escape then. While the Professor is busy, and all those men are working, and everyone is watching the show, and there are many, many people everywhere. I will show you the stage door. It is to the side of the main door. That will be the best way.’
But would the Professor be expecting that? Would he have made a plan? Stella swallowed. She said, ‘Thank you, Mr Capelli,’ and tried to ignore the nervous feeling in her insides.
‘It is nothing,’ Mr Capelli said, beaming. ‘It is less than nothing.’ He picked up a brush from the mantelpiece, scooped up Violetta and sat down on the chair. ‘So, you will return to your Aunts?’ he asked as he began to groom the cat.
Stella took another brush. She knelt beside Alfredo on the hearthrug and stroked the brush along his back. ‘Yes,’ she said. Her heart sank when she thought of the Aunts and how angry they would be. ‘And I will talk to the police detectives about the Professor, if I can. If they will listen to me.’
‘So, you will go straight back to the hotel. To your Aunts and the policemen,’ said Mr Capelli. ‘Splendid. You will be safe.’
‘I hope so,’ agreed Stella.
‘And what will you do with that thing?’ Mr Capelli gestured towards where Mr Filbert’s package was hidden, hanging around her neck.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. She wished she knew what the mysterious silver bottle was. Something very precious, which someone had buried under the ancient hazel tree for safekeeping. But what? It was no good, just running and hiding. She needed to make a plan. She tried to think while she helped to groom the cats, but it was difficult to concentrate. Alfredo rolled over onto his back. Annina pounced on his tail and bit it. He gave an angry mioaw and scrambled up onto Mr Capelli’s shoulder and hissed at her, his ears flat on his head. Mr Capelli laughed and patted him. Stella started brushing Annina. The cat squirmed around and tried to bite the brush. Despite her worries, Stella giggled.
‘They are excited,’ said Mr Capelli. ‘They are most splendid artistes. They have temperament, you understand.’
At last, when all the cats were smooth and glossy (and Stella had been scratched three times and bitten once and was covered with cat fur), Mr Capelli went behind the screen to change into his costume. Stella removed the cats’ leather collars and replaced them with fancy collars embroidered with gold thread and sequins. The cats were making a lot of noise, wailing and yowling.
‘They practise,’ said Mr Capelli from behind the screen. ‘They get ready to perform.’ He started to sing and the cats joined in enthusiastically, lifting their heads and swaying from side to side.
There was a knock at the door. Stella jumped. Before she could duck out of sight, the door opened and a boy’s head poked into the room. He snatched off his cap. ‘Fifteen minutes, Mr Capelli, sir.’
‘Si, si. Thank you!’ shouted Mr Capelli.
The boy glanced at Stella. His eyes widened, and then the door slammed and his footsteps hurried away.
/> ‘He saw me,’ gasped Stella, her heart thumping.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Capelli.
‘He’ll tell the Professor.’
‘Yes, perhaps. But it is not so dreadful.’ Mr Capelli emerged from behind the screen. He wore a red-spangled coat and a sparkling red and gold waistcoat. His moustache was curled and shiny. He placed a glossy black top hat on his head. He looked magnificent. ‘Because now, very fast, we go. I will show you the stage door. Where you can escape straight away, I think.’ He attached leads to the cats’ collars. He tucked the violin under his arm. Alfredo leaped up onto his shoulder. ‘Come,’ he said, and opened the door.
Stella picked up the Atlas and followed him.
Outside in the passage, three men in striped bathing costumes with bristling military moustaches were performing vigorous exercises and shouting, ‘Hup, hup!’ to each other. A tall lady stalked past, dressed entirely in pink feathers with an enormous nodding plume on top of her head.
Mr Capelli walked quickly along the passage, Alfredo perched on his shoulder and the other cats trotting beside him, their tails pointing straight up in the air. Stella hurried along behind, keeping her head down and trying to escape attention. But it was difficult not to stare. There were remarkable things to see on every side.
At the top of the stairs, four or five dark-eyed children, some of them even smaller than Stella, were bending and stretching in an astonishing manner. A girl took hold of a little boy and bent him over backwards into the shape of a croquet hoop. He grinned at Stella from between his own ankles. Stella smiled back nervously.
At the bottom of the stairs, a man led a small donkey past. A woman was singing trills, higher and higher. An enormous man with bulging muscles, wearing a tiger skin, cried, ‘Alley oop,’ and upended himself against a wall, his hands on the ground and his feet in the air. Stella gaped at him. He winked at her, upside down.
People greeted Mr Capelli and he answered them, but he did not stop.
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