Wormwood Mire Read online

  Beyond the ironmonger, Stella spied a narrow, winding alleyway. At the far end, a greenish light shone from a curved bay window. The sign read:

  Spindleweed

  Apothecary and Sweets

  Stella turned the small coin in her pocket, hesitating, and then she ventured into the alley. The upper storeys of buildings on either side nearly touched. Tendrils of ivy snaked along the walls, and the branches of a large tree arched overhead, making a dark tunnel.

  Stella approached the little shop, cupped her hands and peered through the rippled glass of the window. The shadowy interior swam with green light. It was like looking into a pond.

  There was a row of sweet jars in the window. Treacle fudge, gleaming acid drops, cinder toffee and aniseed balls. Barley sugar, and striped black-and-white humbugs, shining like satin.

  She climbed the two steps, pushed open the door and went in. The bell above the door jangled. An oil lamp with a green glass shade hung from the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls, full of jars of sweets. There was a strong smell of peppermint and liquorice, and something musty that she did not recognise.

  Nobody came in answer to the bell.

  ‘Good evening,’ Stella called. There was a scuffling sound. ‘Good evening?’ she called again, her voice faltering. She thought she heard quick, pattering footsteps, but there was no reply.

  She looked at the rows of sweets. A jar held a bundle of rough grey twigs, tied with twine. She crouched to read the label: Liquorice Roots. The next jar was full of knobbly seedpods.

  In the curved glass of the jar, a reflection moved. Stella turned around. Something shifted in a dark corner behind the counter.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ Her voice faltered a little more.

  Her gaze fell on a jar that seemed to be full of cobwebs. Another contained dried leaves and several large snails. Their silver trails glinted in the greenish light.

  Perhaps this was not such a good idea, after all. She took a step towards the door.

  Suddenly, a flurry of raindrops struck the window and a pale shape swooped past outside. A shutter banged, an owl hooted, and something scrabbled on the floor of the room above. There was a cough, and then heavy footsteps dragged across the floor and started down the stairs. A hoarse voice called, ‘Who’s there? Tick? Is that you?’

  Stella clutched her hands together.

  An old woman shuffled behind the counter. She had white hair and a hooked nose, and was wrapped in a black shawl, embroidered with a pattern of feathers and stars. She started to say something, but then she shot out a hand, wrinkled like the claw of a bird, and clasped Stella’s wrist. ‘Who are you? Who?’ Her voice was fierce. Her wide eyes were a strange light yellow.

  ‘I-I —’ Stella stammered. Panic rising, she tried to pull away. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ She wrenched her arm free and darted to the door. Her fingers scrabbled on the handle. She flung it open, setting the bell jangling again, half-fell down the stairs and fled back along the narrow alley.

  Stella’s feet skidded on the muddy ground as she raced out of the alley and into the street. Gasping for air, she looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing to see. She hugged her arms around herself as she hurried back along the street, weaving between people, past the shops and the inn.

  In the station yard, an old-fashioned coach was waiting. The coachman was helping the porter to load Stella’s trunk and suitcase up behind. As she came towards them, Stella heard him say, ‘Three sheep gone, Tom Pintucket says. It’s back, surely. It will be a child next, mark my words.’

  ‘Fiddle faddle,’ said the porter. ‘Nonsense. It ain’t been seen for ten years, or thereabouts. It’s long dead.’

  ‘Cobbin’ great thing, Tom says. Teeth like —’ The coachman saw Stella and stopped.

  The porter turned. ‘There you are, Miss. Where’d you get to? Here’s the fly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stella, her heart hammering.

  ‘It’s near on dark,’ said the coachman with a quick look over his shoulder.

  The porter said, ‘Best get going then,’ and gave one of the horses a slap.

  The coachman said something as he helped Stella up, but the sound of rain on the roof drowned his words.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, as he slammed the door.

  The interior of the coach smelled of damp straw. Stella groped around, felt the cracked leather seat and clambered up.

  Outside, the coachman spoke in a hurried, anxious voice and the porter grunted a reply. Then the coachman climbed up and growled to the horses, and the coach jolted and trundled out of the station yard.

  A few people were hurrying through the rain. In one of the cottages, someone looked out from a window before slamming the shutters.

  Beyond the village, the road wound between fields of dejected-looking, shaggy sheep and rocks and brambles and clumps of trees. Farmhouses were dark, huddled shapes in the dusk. Stella realised she was clutching her hands together so tightly her fingers hurt. She felt as if a large, cold frog was leaping around her insides. She took a breath and pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat.

  The coach bumped and jolted along the winding lanes, its lights flickering on the overgrown hedgerows. Presently, it stopped with such a jerk that Stella was almost flung from her seat. She peered out of the window to see a high stone wall. Along the top was a row of rusty spikes. A pair of curly iron gates was set in a tall archway. A light shone from the window of a small gatehouse. The coachman blew his horn, and after a moment a hunched figure stumped out, unlocked the gates and heaved them open.

  The coach passed through the archway. The road sloped downwards, into an overgrown garden; it was like plunging into dark water. The coachman cracked his whip to hurry the horses along. The coach bounced and plunged and swayed, and Stella clung on, heart thumping. Mist drifted amongst the trees. Palms and ferns, with large, spiky leaves, loomed in the flickering coach lights.

  The coach slowed and jolted to a stop at the front of an enormous house.

  Stella unlatched the door and clambered down into the rain.

  The coachman unloaded the luggage and carried it up the curving steps to the door. He dumped it down in the shelter of the portico.

  Stella said, ‘Wait, please —’ as he turned to go.

  ‘Ring the bell, Miss,’ he grunted, and with a nervous look over his shoulder, he added, almost reluctantly, ‘Mind you stay inside after dark.’ Then he hurried back to the coach, climbed up and drove quickly away up the drive, cracking his whip.

  Stella watched the coach until it was out of sight and the glimmer of its lights was lost amongst the trees. She was shaking, partly from cold and partly from fright. She spied the iron bell pull beside the door. She took a breath, grasped it and pulled it down.

  Three

  There was a coughing wheeze, a long pause, and then a crashing, clattering sound echoed from somewhere far inside the dark house, as if a load of saucepans were being banged together.

  Stella looked up. Towers and chimneys and carved stone animals loomed above her. Raindrops pattered down. In the overgrown garden, trees tangled with vines made uncanny, shadowy shapes.

  A night creature gave a drawn-out, mournful cry. Something took flight with a sound like an umbrella being shaken. There was a crash of branches.

  ‘What was that?’ Stella whispered to Letty.

  Before Letty could answer, a harsh scream from inside the house made Stella jump. She took two steps away from the door, her heart beating in her throat. The scream came again, louder and closer.

  Stella felt herself begin to fade, as she sometimes did when she was trying to hide. Like a wisp of smoke dissolving into the air. She took a deep breath and forced the horrible, dizzying feeling away. She did not want to disappear. What would the cousins say, if they knew she was so strange? That she was fey? What would they think of her? She hoped they would never find out.

  She gripped her hands together tightly, feeling the bones in her fingers, solid and
reassuring.

  The bolts were drawn back with a squeal, and the door opened with a reluctant grinding of hinges.

  A light glimmered.

  A large white bird flapped out.

  Stella shrieked. She put her hands up to shield her eyes and felt the beat of wings.

  A little girl darted out, waving her arms. The bird gave a scream and flew away into the rainy dark.

  ‘Did he frighten you? I’m sorry. He wouldn’t hurt you. Not really.’ Stella turned to see a boy of about her own age. He was stocky, with untidy black hair and dark eyes. ‘That was Henry. He’s a mollymawk.’ The boy was bundled up in a hairy coat, so he looked rather like a small, shaggy bear. A long scarf was wrapped around his neck and he was carrying a lantern. He pushed the last bit of a jam sandwich into his mouth and shook Stella’s hand. ‘How do you do?’ he said with his mouth full. ‘I’m Strideforth. This is my sister, Hortense.’ He spoke quickly, with a slight foreign accent.

  The girl was two or three years younger than the boy. She was wrapped in an embroidered velvet curtain that trailed on the ground behind her. She had tangled dark hair, the same dark eyes as her brother and a solemn expression. She put out her hand.

  ‘I’m Stella,’ said Stella, as she shook hands.

  Strideforth said, ‘We’re very pleased to see you. We met your train, but you weren’t on it. We thought you were lost. Did you hear the bell? The wire was rusted and broken. I fixed it. And I improved it too. It’s very loud now.’

  Hortense cupped her hands around her mouth and made a harsh cry. The bird flew down out of the dark and landed heavily on her head, making her stagger. He looked like a large seagull. His front was gleaming white and his back was grey. A black line on his brow made him appear to be frowning. He clicked his beak several times and cackled at Stella. Then he unfolded his long wings and flew back into the house.

  ‘Hortense rescued Henry when he was a chick,’ said Strideforth. ‘He thinks she is his mother. He’s very bad.’ Hortense scowled at Strideforth, and he said, ‘Oh, he is, Hortense. He is very, very bad. He steals things and tears them to bits.’ He passed her the lantern, grabbed Stella’s trunk by the handle and heaved it over the threshold. He closed the door and bolted it. He said, ‘I’ll ask Mr Burdock to help take your trunk up later. Can I carry this now?’ and took the suitcase.

  Stella looked around the hallway. A magnificent staircase curved up into darkness. Wallpaper with a complicated curly pattern of gold vines gleamed in the lantern light. The head of a large animal with long, pointed horns gazed down with a glassy expression. Cobwebs and dust covered everything.

  ‘This way,’ said Strideforth. He led them through a carved archway and along a wide passage. The wallpaper here hung in damp, curling strips. Henry flew ahead, his loud cries echoing.

  ‘Dining room. Moroccan drawing room,’ said Strideforth, pointing at doors. ‘Music room. Chinese parlour. Come on. Are you cold? It’s warm in the kitchen.’

  They went through a doorway, along another passage, past rows of paintings and glass cases containing a scattering of mouldering insects and broken seashells. A stuffed bird with dusty black feathers and a hooked beak stared at them, its eyes glinting.

  ‘Wilberforce Montgomery built this house …’ Strideforth turned around and walked backwards, ‘a long time ago. He was our ancestor, you know. Our great-great-grandfather. And yours too, I think. He was a collector. And he brought things back here from everywhere. Animals and bones and birds’ eggs. All kinds of things. He was famous for it. Look, there’s a picture of him.’ He pointed to a large portrait in an ornate frame. ‘There. That’s him.’

  Stella looked at the painting with interest. She had never had an ancestor before. Wilberforce Montgomery was a plump, cheerful-looking man, wearing an old-fashioned white wig. He sat in a summerhouse in a garden, beside a lake, surrounded by plants and birds, a pile of books and a globe of the world.

  Below the picture, a large, rusty iron pipe snaked along the wall. Strideforth bent down and felt it. ‘This is quite cold,’ he said. He tapped the pipe with his finger, then put his ear to it and frowned.

  ‘Do you live here all by yourselves?’ asked Stella, as they went up a narrow, winding staircase, their shadows looming and flickering.

  Strideforth said, ‘There’s Miss Araminter, of course. She is our governess. And Mr Burdock and Mrs Burdock. And Jem, their grandson. They are the caretakers. Mrs Burdock takes our washing. And Mr Burdock looks after the furnace. They live up in the gatehouse. And the postman comes sometimes.’

  ‘Aren’t there any servants?’

  ‘No. The people in the village don’t like coming here. They believe in all kinds of things. Ghosts and monsters. They won’t go outside after dark. But that is all nonsense. There are no such things. That is certain. It is unscientific.’

  Strideforth sounded very sure. But Stella knew there were sometimes unexplained things in the world, little trickles of magic. She remembered how reluctant the coachman had been to drive out here and how quickly he had hurried away, and she shivered. She said, ‘It’s a big house.’

  ‘Yes. Forty-six rooms,’ said Strideforth. ‘I counted them. And perhaps more in the main tower. We couldn’t find the way up there.’

  ‘I heard something,’ Stella said. ‘Big and flapping. In the garden.’

  ‘Probably a peacock,’ said Strideforth. ‘They’re huge. And they make a dreadful noise. You do it, Hortense.’

  Hortense made a loud, mournful cry.

  ‘Was that it?’ asked Strideforth.

  Stella nodded.

  Strideforth said, ‘And there are huge big bats living in one of the attics too, perhaps from Java, Miss Araminter thinks. We found a parrots’ nest in the library. And Mrs Burdock says last year a fox had cubs in the Turkish smoking room.’ They had reached a narrow, winding passageway lined with doors. ‘We’re living right at the back here in the servants’ wing, above the kitchen. These used to be the servants’ bedrooms along here. They’re empty now, of course. This is Miss Araminter’s room, this one’s mine and this one’s for Hortense and you.’ He pushed open a door.

  The small room contained two beds. They were covered with blankets and velvet curtains, like the one Hortense was wrapped in. In the lantern light, they gleamed with gold thread.

  Strideforth laid Stella’s suitcase on the bed closest to the window and crouched down to feel an iron pipe that curled along the wall. ‘Be careful, these pipes get hot. At least, they are supposed to. There’s a furnace in the cellar.’

  Stella took off her coat and hat and pulled off her gloves. She rubbed her cold fingers together and looked around the room. It seemed to have been furnished with odd bits and pieces, but it was cosy and welcoming. It had a small window, a plain deal wardrobe and a fancy gilt dressing table with a large mirror. The rug had been cut from a much bigger carpet. The pattern was a small piece of an enormous rose that must have originally been the size of a wagon wheel.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind sharing with Hortense,’ said Strideforth.

  Stella had never shared a bedroom before, but she did not want to be alone here, in this huge empty house. She said, ‘Of course not.’

  Hortense did not say anything.

  Stella wondered if the little girl could speak at all. As if in answer, Strideforth said, ‘Hortense prefers animals to people. She used to talk, but not so much any more. Not since Mother died. Mrs Burdock says she’s wilful and stubborn, but Miss Araminter just says she will talk when she is ready.’

  Hortense frowned, and Stella was startled to see a tiny pointed face peeping out from her tangled dark hair. The little creature had a long body like a weasel, white fur and bright eyes like jet beads. Stella reached out with her finger, but it chittered angrily and snapped at her. Stella jumped back. Hortense chirruped at it, but it darted behind her neck and was gone.

  Strideforth said, ‘That’s Anya. She’s an ermine. Hortense got her from a Russian sailor on the ship. She’s lit
tle, but she’s very fierce. You have to watch her because she bites everyone.’

  Hortense scowled at him.

  Strideforth said, ‘Oh, you know she does, Hortense. She bites everyone. She bit all the sailors, and the passengers, and the Captain, and the ticket collector on the train, and even that lady who was just standing there at the station and also her dog, and Miss Araminter, and Mr Burdock, and Mrs Burdock. And Jem. And the postman. And me. She bites everyone. There is nobody she does not bite, except you. That sailor was very, very happy to give her away.’ He grinned. ‘Are you ready, Stella? You must be hungry and cold. It’s much warmer in the kitchen.’

  Four

  Strideforth led the way down the narrow staircase. ‘The privy is out here, if you need it,’ he said, pointing along a dark passageway. ‘I improved it. I took it apart to see exactly how it works, and then I put it back together. It’s much better now. More efficient. And more interesting. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  It was very cold. Water dripped down the mossy brick walls. This was quite different from the Hotel Majestic, where the plumbing was extremely modern, and sparkling crystals hung from the gaslights. Stella used the lavatory quickly.

  From the other side of the door, Strideforth called, ‘Pull the chain hard.’

  Stella felt for the chain in the darkness and gave it a tug.

  ‘Both hands,’ called Strideforth. ‘Put your whole weight on it.’

  She grabbed the chain and yanked it down. There was a clunking sound, a loud metallic thumping, and then a surging rush of gurgling icy water. When she emerged, dripping, Strideforth grinned proudly and said, ‘See. Come on. The kitchen’s along here.’

  They went along a series of winding, stone-flagged passageways. ‘Shoe room, knife room, butler’s pantry,’ said Strideforth. ‘Here’s the furnace. Come and see.’