by Kim Newman
They all had Secrets. Amy’s was the floating. Light Fingers had a stash of stolen objects, picked up while practising hereditary skills. Frecks had a boyfriend in Watchet – a lad named Clovis, who was walking out with her (when they could both escape, which was seldom) though he was supposedly engaged to a little marchioness. Besides her reprobate brother and her spy parents, Frecks’ family tree included a glamorous uncle who had flown with Pendragon Squadron during the war. Lieutenant Lance Lake, her mother’s brother, had given Frecks some of his kit, including one of the mystic-blessed silvery chainmail balaclavas the Aerial Knights of Avalon believed kept them safe in battle provided their cause was just and true. Kali wore the snail in her nose at least partially to cover a scar given her by her father – who once took it in mind to stick the point of a dagger up her nostril and rip it free.
Amy told the Forus about Mother, and the uncles she had periodically gained and lost since Father died. Light Fingers admitted she’d drawn up, and tested, five plans for escaping from School Grounds, which were set down in cipher in her Time-Table Book. Frecks said she was smuggling vitriol out of the Hypatia Hall a drop at a time, saving enough to throw in the marchioness’s face this Easter – using a test tube she’d managed to get her brother to leave his fingerprints on. Kali was thinking hard about her first massacre. You couldn’t be taken seriously as a bandit in Kafiristan until you’d supervised at least one massacre.
Originally from Bengal, the Chattopadhyay clan were driven north-east across the entire sub-continent in the 18th Century by the East India Company, who Kali said were worse bandits than anyone in her family. Kafiristan – Land of the Infidels – was properly called Nuristan – Land of the Enlightened – these days, though Kali’s family resisted forced conversion to Islam a generation ago and refused to acknowledge what it said on the map. She hoped to be the first of her family to use ‘a Chicago pianola’ and ‘pineapples’ rather than kukri knives or strangling scarves.
In books written by grown-ups, there was a lot of guff about school days being either the happiest of your life or a worse ordeal than penal servitude. Headmistress gave speeches about School Spirit and Wicked Wyke hoped to foment a similar, if more limited Desdemona Spirit which never quite caught on – though Desdemonas bristled at any suggestion other Houses were better in any way, except in games where Goneril won so often no one cared about losing. Amy didn’t have the luxury of stepping out of herself and thinking of Drearcliff in terms of Good, Bad or Indifferent. The place was, at times, immeasurably better than her old school (which she could barely recall – she spent twenty minutes nagging at a lost scrap of memory, unable to summon her old school’s word for ‘greens’) and at times far, far worse. She was here, this was (for the time being) her world, and that was that.
She was a Drearcliff Girl.
VII: Kidnapped!
BECAUSE SHE WORE specs, Inchfawn was trusted with the map.
This Thursday afternoon, Desdemona were at War with an unholy alliance of Tamora and Goneril. Ariel were supposed to be on their side, but had capitulated early. Viola were being Belgium, which meant standing in a field and blubbing rather than being bayonetted or importuned by Hunnish hordes.
The berserkers of Tamora wore Art Room blue paint on their faces and brandished hockey sticks decorated with the skulls of shrews. Led by Zenobia Aire, the Fiend of the Fourth, they broke through the Desdemona lines with a great whooping, bashing, screaming attack. It was a rout.
Amy, Kali, Smudge and Inchfawn were cut off from the rest of the House. They had fled to a wooded area outside School Grounds. Inchfawn found an overgrown path she promised was a shortcut back to HQ, but it ran downwards, turning into a small pebble-bed stream, and came out on the beach.
There was a dramatic view of Drearcliff Grange, but no easy way to get up to it.
Floating was an option – but Inchfawn and Smudge weren’t in on the secret, and Amy thought it best to keep them in the dark. Smudge, liable to exaggerate, would have Amy zooming about with her tail on fire like Hans von Hellhund, the Demon Ace.
Inchfawn was potentially a Problem.
Since Fossil had taken an interest in Amy’s Book of Moths, the teacher’s devoted disciple had been at best cold and at worst malicious. Jealousy was a terrible, terrible thing. Inchfawn was rather an unhappy girl and Amy of course felt sorry for her – but she was a drip and a millstone, a burden to the House and a liability to School.
‘Some shortcut, sister,’ snarled Kali. ‘Sure you ain’t rattin’ for Tamora? If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a dirty squealin’ rat. If there’s two things I can’t stand, it’s the wrigglin’ portions of a dirty squealin’ rat after she’s been chopped in half.’
That was a bit strong, but Amy didn’t pipe up.
She was cold, bruised and tired. Tuck had run out an hour ago. When they made it back to base, they were sure to be Black-Notched for straying out of bounds. Amy was not looking forward to scrubbing the Heel with her toothbrush. She only had the one, and would have to clean her teeth with what was left of it.
At this rate, they might have to surrender. She hoped they could find a Goneril patrol to be captured by. Then, they’d be marched to neutral territory to sit out the War with the wets of Viola. It would be worse luck to run into a Tamora murder party.
Inchfawn looked at the unrolled map again and shook her head. She offered it to Smudge, who was in her cell, but the other girl wouldn’t touch it.
Inchfawn had obviously given up even trying to help.
So far, Amy had stayed away from the beach. Shores were generally not moth country. The most notable landmark was the fallen tower, which was a way off, surrounded by ‘Danger – Keep Out’ signs. The coast was unevenly eroded, making seaside walks fraught with peril. There was always a risk of being cut off by the tide, which could swiftly transform open beach into a shrinking shingle bay, inaccessible except by boat or climb. Cliff-base caves tempted the adventurous explorer – but they’d been warned against them because, at high tide, the waters washed in and anyone inside would certainly drown.
It was said the caves were used in olden days by smugglers, though Amy supposed smuggling more likely on coasts facing France or Holland than one in sight of South Wales. A few wave-cut overhangs were on their way to becoming caves or catastrophic collapses. Chunks of rock often detached from the cliffs and fell on the beach. School legend had it that two teachers were squashed during a midnight tryst, dying in a compromising embrace.
Smudge pointed out the exact spot where this tragedy had occurred. She spread her arms to indicate the extent of the human pancake found the next morning.
‘We believe you,’ said Amy, ‘thousands wouldn’t.’
Smudge stuck out her lower lip. She was very fond of this story. At different times, she had identified six or seven different combinations of teachers in old photographs as the doomed couple. Until 1914, several moustached, jolly-looking masters could be found among the mistresses. Since the War, the only men in the pictures were Ponce Bainter and Joxer.
* * *
Amy knew it was down to her and Kali.
They couldn’t go back the way they came. They’d had to move quickly to avoid the Tamora patrol commanded by Crowninshield II, the ventriloquist whip’s younger, nastier sister. After taking prisoners, Crowninshield II performed harsh interrogations. Really, what she liked was tying people up. She practised knots on naive Firsts lured to her cell with the promise of lemonade. She might even have got in trouble for it if her sister weren’t a whip.
Together, Amy and Kali looked up the cliff.
‘There might be a path,’ said Amy.
‘For you, maybe…’
‘You’re a decent climber, Kali.’
They looked at Inchfawn and Smudge.
‘If we ditch the baggage, it’s a Stain. A whole mess of Stains, doll.’
Amy admitted it. Desdemona didn’t abandon its own.
Kali hefted her wooden rifle.
Smudge heard that and was alarmed.
‘She’s just joshing,’ said Amy.
Smudge not only spread wild stories, but believed them. It would be all over School tomorrow that Kali had killed several girls and buried them in the herb garden.
Inchfawn sat down and looked at her big clunky wristwatch. It was her prize possession, handed on from a brother who’d been in the trenches. If the hour-hand was pointed at the sun, it worked as a compass – but the day was overcast, if not actually raining, and they already knew which direction they needed to take. It was just that they couldn’t go that way easily.
Amy’s toe turned something out of the shingle. An old cricket ball, seams expanded but holding together. The School pitch was near enough to the edge of the cliff that balls could be hit for a six into the sea.
Suddenly, they were surrounded.
Kali threw away her useless wooden rifle. She reached under her knee-length khaki skirt to pull a long, straight knife from a holster strapped to her thigh. Not QMWAACC regulation issue. Amy hefted her wooden rifle by the barrel like a hockey stick, hoping to give the enemy a good sloshing.
‘Screw off, mugs!’ shouted Kali.
Inchfawn had her hands up, in surrender – the weed. Smudge fumbled with her ill-kept rifle, which came to pieces in her hands.
Kali held up her knife and bared her teeth.
A crack! sounded. Then, a curtailed ping-nyeow!
A shot, and a ricochet.
If Desdemona had knives, trust Tamora to bring real guns.
‘I say, you gels are playing rough,’ declared Smudge. ‘Get things in proportion, why don’t you?’ – which was rich, coming from her. ‘A damsel could get damaged.’
Another shot, and a spray of pebbles kicked up at Smudge’s legs.
Amy looked at the enemy and realised there was a mistake. These weren’t Crowninshield II’s rope-happy Campfire Comanches. Even She-With-No-Mercy Aire wouldn’t go this far.
There were eight or nine of them. Slight by grown-up standards, but not all – or not even – girls. They wore loose black clothes and matching hoods with eye-holes. Several had revolvers. One held a shotgun.
‘Sticky crumpets!’ exclaimed Amy.
The one who had shot at them was definitely not a girl. He had a red tuft on the forehead of his hood, a badge of leadership. It looked like a flame. Was it the symbol of a secret society? He took careful aim at Smudge and she shut her mouth.
Had she been wrong about the scarcity of smugglers hereabouts? From their outfits, this mob were up to no good. The hoods suggested organised illegality. They reminded her of Les Vampires or the bands of desperate minions employed by wicked uncles to abduct soppy heiresses.
Kali gave a battle yell and charged.
Amy’s heart clutched and she was sure her friend would be shot. She swung her rifle, which left her hands and cartwheeled through the air until it smacked against a hooded head. A torrent of frightful masculine swearing poured forth.
Kali went for the leader, who sidestepped her charge and cold-cocked her with his pistol butt. She dropped her knife.
Two others caught the stunned girl and bound her with ropes. They were as practised as Crowninshield II.
With his gun, the leader indicated that Amy and the others should not interfere.
The prisoner was dragged, a deadweight, along the beach. The fellow Amy had beaned was still angry, but his leader indicated they shouldn’t stick around. They had what they’d come for.
Kali.
‘You can’t do that, you bounders,’ Amy shouted.
They didn’t reply and kept on doing it.
‘You won’t get away with this,’ she added.
She didn’t sound convincing to herself.
The hooded men moved quickly. They were nearly out of sight beyond a cliff outcrop. Amy picked up the old, wet cricket ball and bowled it at the leader’s head. She made the ball light as it left her hand, then let it recover its weight as it flew long and straight. She had tried this before.
The hooded leader turned to look back and was struck between the eyes.
‘Thrown, Amy,’ applauded Smudge.
The hood must have protected the leader, for he didn’t fall down dead. He shook a fist back at the girls. Amy picked up stones. The leader made a sign to a minion, and the shotgun was discharged in their general direction. Pellets pattered on the beach. Then, the gunman took careful aim with the other barrel. Reluctantly, Amy dropped the rocks.
The abductors hustled away.
As soon as they were round the curve, Amy would follow, keeping close to the cliff, hiding, floating if need be. She could not let smugglers take her friend.
Smudge grabbed her arm, holding her back.
‘They’ll shoot you,’ she said.
‘I don’t care,’ said Amy.
‘They might shoot Kali,’ Smudge argued.
‘If they went to the trouble of tying her up and carting her off, I should say not,’ Amy reasoned. ‘Her father has enemies. The kidnappers probably intend to ransom her.’
‘It could be Ponce’s white slavers,’ put in Smudge. ‘Not that Kali’s white, but, you know, for her I expect they’d make an exception… She’s jolly saleable, I should say.’
‘I don’t care what colour she is,’ said Amy. ‘She’s a Desdemona of Drearcliff. We can’t let her be snatched without a fight.’
Amy broke free of Smudge.
‘I wish Miss Borrodale were here,’ said Inchfawn.
Then, suddenly, she was.
‘You girls,’ said Fossil, ‘War’s over. You’re casualties.’
VIII: Treachery
SMUDGE TOLD THE story first, which was a disaster.
After confirming that Kali hadn’t turned up back at School, Miss Borrodale took Amy, Smudge and Inchfawn to Headmistress’s study. Dr Swan asked Keys to sit in on the interview. Small chairs were brought in for the girls.
‘Chattopadhyay is missing,’ stated Dr Swan. ‘Tell me what you know.’
In a gush, Smudge got out her version of what happened on the beach. She had most of it straight, but embellished details. Instead of a sewn-on red patch in the shape of a flame, Smudge said the leader’s hood was actually on fire. She claimed the abductors had popped out of foxholes on the beach – which might have been true, but sounded silly.
The tide was in now, so any evidence – spent shotgun pellets, for instance – was underwater.
Smudge wasn’t believed.
Amy calmly confirmed most of the story and insisted the police be called at once. The country must be searched, trains stopped, roads blocked, airfields shut down. It was vital action be taken now.
Dr Swan and Fossil exchanged looks. Amy was still a new girl to them. They now thought she was following the errant path of Smudge Oxenford into realms of faerie, flight and fancy.
The spotlight fell on Inchfawn.
Surely, the grown-ups would have to believe three girls telling the same story!
Inchfawn took off her glasses and cleaned them with a hankie.
‘Kali ran off,’ said Inchfawn. ‘She talked about it, then she did it. She said she could get back to School without us. She said we were baggage.’
Headmistress’s eyes nearly closed.
Any girl who knew Kali could tell this was rot, but Amy understood that – to the tiny mind of a grown-up – Inchfawn’s version sounded more believable than a wild romance of hooded villains. Especially if the primary source was the School’s most famous Exaggerator. Smudge invoked smugglers, white slavers, anarchists, spies and members of secret orders of demon-worshipping monks so often that patience with her had run dry.
Amy had a spurt of pity for the Exaggerator. At last she had a true story of crime and terror to recount, but her previous yarns rendered it worthless. Amy felt only cold contempt for Inchfawn. She wanted to slap her, but knew it would
make the drip seem even more like the put-upon truth-teller in a nest of verminous fibbers.
Headmistress asked Fossil to escort Inchfawn to Old House, where she was to clean herself up for supper. A-tremble at being entrusted to her idol, Inchfawn ignored Amy’s thumb-through-the-fist sign. The traitor couldn’t cling to Miss Borrodale’s skirt forever. Eventually, she must answer for her crimes.
Amy and Smudge remained with Headmistress.
‘It is a serious matter to voice untruths in this study,’ said Dr Swan. ‘Even in the cause of protecting a House Sister.’
Now it looked even worse. Kali had run off like a sneak and her friends were lying to cover up.
‘Do you have anything to add to your account of this afternoon’s incident?’
Amy and Smudge did not.
‘Very well,’ said Headmistress. ‘This matter will be resumed.’
‘Aren’t you going to call Scotland Yard?’ asked Smudge.
‘We make our own laws at Drearcliff,’ said Dr Swan softly. ‘Keys will find Chattopadhyay.’
Keys nodded. She had a waterproof cape to hand and was set to go out in search of the missing girl. At least something was being done, though it was scant comfort.
Dr Swan considered the girls, drummed her lacquered nails on her desk, and said, ‘You are dismissed.’
IX: The Moth Club
‘KEYS WON’T FIND Kali,’ declared Frecks. ‘The old trout knows School better than anyone, but hasn’t been off grounds this century. When she was a Sixth, she was engaged to a young officer. He only went off and got beheaded at Khartoum with General Gordon. Keys took a vow not to leave Drearcliff Grange. Graduated from Girl to Staff and stayed put. Wants to be buried in the cricket pitch. Under the crease.’
‘Could hardly make it any lumpier,’ Amy commented.