Withering-by-Sea Read online

‘Just like a footpath,’ she muttered, and pulled herself to her feet. The ledge didn’t seem quite as wide as she had thought, but the surface felt slightly rough under her bare feet, which made it easy to grip. Right beside the window was a stone lady’s head. Stella ignored the dizzying feeling of empty space dropping away behind her. She reached out and took hold of the lady’s nose. Keeping her face against the wall, she took her first step along the ledge, sideways like a crab. Beyond the lady’s head there were some curly stone flowers. She gripped onto them, edged another step along, and then another.

  Just before the Aunts’ window was another stone lady’s head; this one seemed to be smiling faintly. Two more steps, and Stella had one hand on the lady’s chin and the other on the Aunts’ window frame. As carefully as she could, she lowered herself to her knees again, and then down to a sitting position, and poked her legs through the open window into the Aunts’ bedroom. She felt around with her feet and found the edge of the embroidered ottoman that lived just beside the window. She planted both feet firmly and slithered down into the room. She landed on the ottoman with a soft thump, letting out her breath in a silent, shuddering gasp.

  Both Aunts were still snoring. Stella could just make out Aunt Temperance’s long, bony shape in one bed and Aunt Condolence’s hippopotamus shape in the other. She tiptoed between the beds to the door. As she passed, Aunt Condolence gave a grunt and turned over. Stella jumped and made a tiny, startled sound. She pressed her hand to her mouth. But Aunt Condolence settled down, snuffled and started her pig-like snoring again almost immediately. Stella crept across the room to the parlour door, opened it and glided through, as silent as a cat.

  The Hotel Majestic was quite different at night. The gas was turned low, so there were dark shadows in doorways and corners. Indistinct voices and other sounds echoed in the stairwells. Stella crept along the passageway and started down the winding back stairs. On the first landing she froze. Two maids were below. One was sitting on a step, leaning against the banister with her back to Stella. The other lolled on a wooden chair with her feet up. Stella ducked down and peered around the banister. They were sleeping. Could she creep past without waking them? It seemed unlikely. She turned and tiptoed back up the stairs and along the deserted passageway to the main staircase.

  Gas hissed in the big round lamps and the gigantic dangling chandelier. The brightness made Stella blink. She leaned over to see, three storeys below, the marble floor of the entrance hall and the shiny bald head of the night manager, Mr Blenkinsop. He was slumped across his desk and he, too, seemed to be asleep.

  She tiptoed down two flights of stairs, keeping close to the wall in case Mr Blenkinsop should happen to glance up. The stair carpet was soft and silent underfoot and the marble on the landings was very cold and smooth. The pattern of this carpet is exceedingly vulgar. She stifled a giggle, ducked down a side passageway and slipped into the library.

  The library was shadowy and full of obstacles. Stella crept between awkward, high-backed chairs and statues of gentlemen’s heads on alabaster pillars. A loud snort made her stiffen. She peered around the back of a chair. It was General Carruthers. He smacked his lips together twice and started to snore. Everyone in the hotel seemed to be sleeping. Except for me, thought Stella.

  Beside the sleeping general, on a carved table in the shape of an elephant, rested a glass of brandy and three square biscuits on a little plate. Stella’s stomach growled like a hungry jaguar.

  She tiptoed across to a small door at the far side of the library, slipped through it, crept down a narrow staircase and into the dark sunroom. The only sounds were her teeth munching the general’s biscuits (this was extremely loud inside her head; the general’s biscuits came by sea from Scotland and they were very hard-wearing), her soft footfalls and the occasional hiss and clank from the steam pipes.

  In the sunroom, she threaded her way between cane chairs and aspidistras in brass jars. The morning room beyond was very dark. She crossed it silently. She pushed open the door to the conservatory and slipped inside. The ferns were dark, banking shadows on either side of the pale tiled path. Water dripped and steam hissed under the gratings in the floor. She tiptoed past the silent fountain and followed the path around behind the ferns.

  And there, lying just as she had left it, was the Atlas. Stella gave a gasp of relief, snatched it up and hugged it to her chest. It was even damper than usual and it smelled of moss, but it was safe.

  Then she remembered Mr Filbert’s strange behaviour earlier that day and how he had hidden the tiny package in the Chinese urn. Was it still there? Clutching the Atlas, she followed the path along to the urn, parted the drooping fern fronds, stood on tiptoe and reached up. She dug into the earth with her fingers, felt the package amongst the roots of the fern and pulled it out. It was small. She could hold it easily in one hand. It was too dark to see clearly, but it felt as though it were wrapped in oilcloth and tied with string. What could it be?

  She reached up to put the little package safely back into its hiding place, but then froze, her heart thumping. Somewhere nearby, she heard a crash. Then footsteps and raised voices. Clutching the Atlas and Mr Filbert’s package, she crept to the door of the conservatory, pushed it open an inch, put her eye to the crack and peered out into the darkness. The door on the far side of the morning room had a coloured glass window in it, and she could see a light flickering red and blue.

  Crash. The door banged open and an enormous man stamped into the morning room. He held a candlestick with three flaring candles in a hand that looked like a bunch of sausages. He turned and Stella stifled a gasp. For a horrible moment she thought he had the face, the protruding snout, of an animal. But then she saw he wore a buckled leather mask that covered his nose and mouth. He shoved it up onto his forehead, wiped a hand over his mouth, spat and said, ‘Tastes like a flippin’ grunters ken, don’t it, Scuttler?’

  ‘Pipe down, Charlie.’ A smaller man, also wearing a mask, slunk into the room. The mask made his voice sound distant and grating. His eyes darted around furtively. He had pale whiskers and wore a cerulean waistcoat with a pattern of roses.

  The first man laughed. ‘It don’t matter, Scuttler. The Professor’s got the bleedin’ hand o’ glory, ain’t he?’ He laughed again nervously and glanced back over his shoulder.

  ‘That thing gives me chills, Charlie,’ said the second man. ‘And it don’t feel very professional like, making all this rumbo. Put your gasper back on, mate. You don’t want to be nodding off.’

  The big man shrugged and pushed the mask back over his nose and mouth. He put the candlestick on a low table, overturned a chair and probed its underside with his enormous fingers. ‘Just a tiny niggle thing, and hid somewhere. But a bleedin’ golden strike to him as finds it.’ With the mask on, his voice was muffled and metallic.

  Thieves. Searching for something. Stella let the conservatory door close softly, scuttled into a dark patch of shadow behind a big fern and crouched there. She tightened her grip on the Atlas and Mr Filbert’s package as the crashes and thumps came closer.

  Footsteps approached and the door handle rattled. The second man pushed open the door. ‘Charlie, there’s a flippin’ great greenhouse in here. Bring that glimstick.’

  The big man elbowed his way through the door. Candlelight flickered and reflected off the wet ferns and the glass panes in the walls and roof. Stella held her breath. Above his mask, the smaller man’s eyes were alert and sharp. She was sure he would see her. For a moment, she felt dizzy and strange. As if she were somehow fading away, to become part of the shadow. Her head swam. The man’s gaze slid over her without pausing. As he turned away, Stella let out a cautious, silent breath. She had always been extremely good at hiding.

  ‘It’s a bleedin’ jungle, Charlie.’ The big man started down the path towards the fountain, holding the candlestick high and looking about. The candle flames scuttered and flared, making his enormous shadow, with its misshapen, pig-like head, loom and flicker.


  After a darting glance all around, the smaller man followed him. They moved past Stella, almost close enough for her to touch, and then away down the path. She watched them circling the fountain.

  The big man kicked over a flowerpot with a crash and both men laughed. They had their backs to her. Stella started to creep from her hiding place.

  A soft voice spoke from just above her.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the voice. It wasn’t loud, but something about it made Stella shiver. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand and shrank back into the shadow, her heart thumping.

  The two men stopped laughing immediately and came back along the path. ‘Professor,’ they muttered.

  A tall man stepped into Stella’s view. A gaunt shadow, silhouetted against the flickering candlelight. One pale hand rested on the head of a cane with a handle shaped like a serpent’s head. On one finger was a ring with a dark stone. It glittered red in the light of the candle. Stella recognised the man. He was the new resident she had seen in the entrance hall. She remembered his thin, yellowish face, green-tinted spectacles and steady, intent gaze.

  Other figures followed him into the conservatory, carrying candles. Two more masked men half-carried, half-dragged a limp body between them. But it was the tall man who drew Stella’s attention. There was something compelling about him, although he was very still and spoke quietly. Stella’s fingernails dug into her palms.

  He gestured with his cane, and the masked men dragged the body forward and dropped it onto the floor. As the candlelight caught its face, Stella recognised Mr Filbert. He lay sprawled, his head lolling. His eyes were closed and a thin line of blood trickled from one ear and stained his shirt collar. He was dressed only in a shirt and trousers and he had slippers on his feet, as if he had been getting ready for bed.

  The Professor said, ‘Our friend here has not been as forthcoming as I would wish. But I have extracted something. It seems my property is concealed here.’ He gestured with his long, pale fingers. ‘But where, exactly, I wonder?’ He looked down at Mr Filbert. ‘I could have my men tear this place apart. But I would not be certain of finding it, would I? And there is an easier way.’

  Mr Filbert’s eyelids flickered and his eyes opened. He took a breath with obvious effort and said, ‘I will never tell you, I . . .’

  His voice trailed off as the Professor said, ‘No, Dryad, perhaps not. But there is, as I mentioned, an easier way.’ He gestured again and a small figure was pushed into the candlelight.

  It was the thin, pale boy Stella had seen in the entrance hall. The Professor beckoned and the boy shook his head but took two steps forward. He said, ‘No, no. Please, sir,’ in a low voice.

  The Professor passed his cane to one of the masked men, placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and pulled him closer. The gesture looked gentle, but the boy winced.

  ‘Hold out your hands,’ the Professor ordered. He turned the ring on his finger, and the dark stone caught the light and gleamed.

  The boy’s eyes were on the ring. He looked as if he might cry. He shook his head again but obeyed, cupping his hands together. His fingers and palms were stained black. The Professor took a small bottle of ink from his coat pocket, unscrewed the lid and poured the ink into the boy’s cupped, trembling hands. He recapped the bottle and returned it to his pocket. Then he placed one hand on the boy’s unwilling head and tilted it forward, until the boy was forced to stare into the pool of ink he held in his hands.

  ‘See,’ said the Professor.

  The boy stopped trembling and stood stiff, his eyes quite empty.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  The boy’s pale face was quite blank as he gazed into the pool of ink he held in his cupped hands.

  ‘Do you see him?’ asked the Professor. Candlelight glinted off his spectacles, turning the lenses into flickering yellow discs.

  ‘I see him,’ answered the boy. His voice was expressionless.

  ‘Do you see him hiding something?’

  ‘I see him hiding a little thing,’ said the boy.

  ‘Can you show me where?’

  ‘I can.’

  The Professor removed his hand from the boy’s head. The boy stumbled backwards. Ink spilled from his hands. He bent over, gasping and coughing.

  ‘Come on, boy.’ The Professor licked his lips. ‘Where is it?’

  The boy pointed, his ink-stained fingers shaking. ‘Down there, sir. In that big pot.’

  The Professor took his cane, turned and strode towards the fountain. The masked men followed, pulling the boy with them. Stella watched them move away, and then glanced down at Mr Filbert, lying forgotten on the tiles.

  She almost cried out in surprise. His eyes were open and he was looking straight at her. With an effort, he raised his finger to his lips.

  Stella nodded, her heart thumping. She opened her hand to reveal the package. She started to explain why she had taken it, but he whispered quickly, ‘Hide it. Keep it safe.’

  There was a shout and an enormous crash from the other end of the conservatory. The Chinese urn lay smashed on the tiled path. Two of the masked men dropped to their knees and scrabbled amongst the broken pieces.

  ‘Go, go, child,’ whispered Mr Filbert desperately. He raised himself up on one elbow. ‘Go now. Hide it. Keep it safe. Promise me.’

  Stella nodded. ‘I will.’

  ‘Remember . . .’ He started to say something more, but then he collapsed and his eyes closed.

  Stella crept out of her hiding place.

  One of the masked men searching through the smashed pieces of the Chinese urn said something, looked up at the Professor and shrugged. The Professor raised his cane and struck him hard on the side of his head, and he fell to the ground.

  Stella crouched and touched Mr Filbert’s cheek. His skin felt rough, like the bark of a tree. He did not move.

  One of the men shouted something.

  Stella jumped to her feet.

  ‘Look! A nipper!’

  Stella turned and ran.

  There were shouts and crashes behind her. She sprinted through the morning room, her bare feet silent, clutching the Atlas and Mr Filbert’s package to her chest. She darted around an overturned chair and banged through the door into the sunroom. She could hear voices and see candlelight flickering behind her. She paused for a fraction of a second, then turned and slipped through the small door to the servants’ passageway. She ran along the passageway and up the stairs, two at a time.

  In the library, the lights were burning dimly and the air felt thick and still. The general snored in his chair.

  ‘General Carruthers,’ gasped Stella. She pulled his arm. It flopped off the armrest and dangled. Stella clutched it and shook it. ‘General!’ she called, as loudly as she dared. She thumped his shoulder. ‘General! Please. Wake up. There are thieves and . . .’ She walloped his chest with her fist. The general made a grunting noise, but then started to snore again.

  Stella picked up the glass from the little table and threw the drink in the general’s face. He snorted in his sleep and smacked his lips together. Brandy dripped off his whiskers.

  ‘General!’ she shouted, louder than she wanted to. But he slept on.

  Crash. It sounded as if someone were smashing furniture in the sunroom. A loud laugh, a door slammed and footsteps started clumping up the stairs. Where could she hide?

  The door banged open.

  Stella flung herself down and squeezed underneath the general’s chair. The metal springs poked into her back, but she wriggled her way underneath with determination and folded her legs up. Her face pressed into the dusty carpet. She hoped she would not sneeze.

  A voice said, loud and close, ‘I reckon you were mistook, Charlie. You’re seeing things. And now the Professor’s in a right maggoty flummox.’

  A second voice said, ‘It was a nipper, Scuttler. I’m dead certain.’

  ‘Like when you were dead certain you seen that headless hound? Out on the marsh when we were cutting down t
hat blasted tree? Scared the flippin’ innards out of me, that did.’

  ‘It was bent around, Scuttler.’

  ‘A fair difference between a headless hound and a barker bent around having an old scratch, Charlie.’

  ‘I know what I seen.’

  Stella held her breath and listened to the tramping feet and the creaks and thumps as the men searched the room. Above her, the general snored. Stella hoped that they wouldn’t think to look under his chair.

  The first voice said, ‘Any nipper’d be snoozing, like old puffguts there, anyhow. What with the Professor’s hand o’ glory alight.’

  ‘That thing gives me the right shudders, Scuttler.’

  ‘Me too, Charlie. Me too.’

  He said something that Stella didn’t catch and there was an enormous crash. She jumped and a chair spring jabbed into her back.

  There were a few more scuffling noises and thumps, and one of the men said, ‘Well, there ain’t no nippers in here, Charlie.’

  A door handle rattled, a door opened and the footsteps clumped away. Stella let out a cautious, silent breath. She waited a minute or two, and then wriggled out from under the chair. She tiptoed over the smashed pieces of an alabaster pillar and peered out of the door. The passageway was empty. The men had gone.

  She slipped out of the library and crept along to the main staircase.

  The big round lights flickered and hissed. The air seemed waxy and heavy. There was nobody in sight. Stella peered over the banister rail. Down in the entrance hall, Mr Blenkinsop still lay slumped across his desk, sound asleep. Stella tiptoed down the stairs.

  ‘Mr Blenkinsop,’ she whispered. ‘Wake up! Thieves!’ She jerked his arm. He slipped off the desk and flopped sideways in his chair. His head lolled back and his mouth opened, but he did not wake up.

  ‘Mr Blenkinsop!’ Stella shook his arm again and then hit him as hard as she could, somewhere in his middle. He snorted in his sleep and then he began to snore. Stella felt like screaming. Why wouldn’t he wake up? This wasn’t normal sleeping. She looked around desperately.