‘You mean you’re pretending to be someone else?’
‘Well, that’s what actors do,’ said Clovis.
‘Yes, but everyone knows it’s only pretence.’ She shook her head. ‘You mean at Westwood they think you’re the heir? And they’re still thinking it?’
‘Yes. But I know I’ll have to confess.’
‘Of course you will, Jimmy. You couldn’t live a lie. That grand place – I’ve heard it’s splendid. You must tell them straight away. And of course you can come here. Times is hard but we’ll manage.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clovis.
He looked round the cottage again. Funny how small it was. He’d wanted so much to be back here when he was with the Goodleys, but now . . .
But he knew his foster mother was right. He would confess. He’d do it the very next day.
But finding a time to do it was not easy. The next day Sir Aubrey was shut up with his bailiff and the day after that he was driven into York for a check-up with his doctor.
But on the third day after Clovis had seen his foster mother, Sir Aubrey suggested a little walk round the park. He took his stick and a pair of binoculars and put on his deerstalker and they set off.
‘Time you got to know the estate,’ he told Clovis.
But before they crossed the courtyard, Sir Aubrey stopped by the statue with the severed head. He touched the neck stump with his stick, then ran it over the battered forehead and nose of the head lying on the ground.
‘Something I wanted to ask you, my boy,’ he said. ‘About this statue. Could you leave the head the way it is after I go? Because of Dudley. Something to remember him by?’ He sniffed and blew his nose.
‘After you go, sir?’
‘After I pop my clogs. Turn up my toes. Die, you know, what. When everything in the place is yours.’
Clovis took a deep breath. Now was the time. He couldn’t go on with this lie.
‘Actually, sir,’ he began, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ He flushed, but went on resolutely. ‘You see—’
A thunderous, braying voice interrupted him. The Basher, mounted on an enormous black horse, came galloping across the Home Paddock towards them. Behind her, looking cold and worried, came the three banshees on their ponies.
‘Came to ask the boy to tea,’ brayed the Basher. ‘The girls want him to play charades.’
So that was the end of the first confession.
The next time he was alone with Sir Aubrey was after dinner, when they were served coffee in the drawing room.
The fire was drawing nicely; Sir Aubrey looked sleepy and amiable. Perhaps he wouldn’t be too angry?
‘Sir Aubrey, I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Grandfather. Told you to call me Grandfather, boy.’
‘You see there’s been a mistake – a muddle. The crows – I mean Mr Trapwood and Mr Low – thought I was someone else and—’
He began quickly to tell his story, looking down at the fireside rug. When he had finished he lifted his head, waiting for the explosion.
Sir Aubrey lay stretched out in the chair; his arm hung limply by his side and from his chest there came a deep and rumbling snore.
He hadn’t heard a word that Clovis had said.
Clovis almost gave up after that. Only the thought of what his foster mother would say if he did not tell the truth kept him going. And at the beginning of his third week at Westwood, he managed it.
He was with Sir Aubrey in the picture gallery. The old man often took him there, and in particular he liked to stand Clovis next to the portrait of Admiral Sir Alwin Taverner in his cocked hat, and point out to Clovis how alike they were.
‘Look at the nose, boy; the way it turns up, just like yours.’ Or: ‘See the cleft in the chin – exactly the same.’
This time Clovis felt he couldn’t stand this, and before Sir Aubrey could take him to see a picture of what was supposed to be another of his great-great uncles, he took a deep breath and began.
‘Sir Aubrey, I have to tell you—’
‘Grandfather,’ interrupted the old man. ‘I’ve told you to call me Grandfather.’
Clovis was getting desperate. ‘Yes; but you see you’re not really my grandfather. There’s been a mistake. I’m really—’ And this time, very quickly, he managed to tell his story.
Clovis had often imagined what would happen after he owned up and told the truth. He had imagined Sir Aubrey ragingly angry or icily cold or even hurt.
But never in his worst nightmares had he imagined anything as terrible as what happened next.
Chapter Eighteen
The twins still hadn’t decided how to spend the money and they still wouldn’t take it to the bank. They had sewn two calico pouches to keep it in, which they wore round their necks even when doing their lessons. The pouches came down quite low over their stomachs and every so often they patted them to make sure the money was still there.
‘Like kangaroos with indigestion,’ said Maia.
But what upset Maia was the way Miss Minton was behaving. She had taken to going off on her own and when Maia asked her where she was going, she gave answers that weren’t answers at all.
And had she been packing her trunk?
The twins, of course, missed no chance to taunt Maia.
‘Your precious Minty’s got a secret, and we know what it is,’ jeered Beatrice.
‘But we aren’t going to tell you,’ said Gwendolyn.
‘Only you needn’t think she’s going to stay with you.’
Even so, it wasn’t till Minty lost her temper with the twins that Maia realized that something was seriously wrong.
They were doing an English Exercise in Dr Bullman’s book.
‘Beatrice, can you give me an example of alliteration?’ asked Miss Minton.
‘No, I can’t,’ said Beatrice.
‘What about you, Gwendolyn?’
Gwendolyn shook her head. ‘I can’t either.’
Miss Minton’s corset was troubling her but she kept her patience.
‘Read what Dr Bullman says again, Beatrice. At the top of the page.’
‘“All . . . it . . . eration is the use of words beginning with the same letter, or contain . . . ing the same letter . . .”’ She stopped and patted her pouch. ‘I don’t know what that means.’
Miss Minton, who had explained twice, explained again. ‘Suppose you say “In a summer season when soft was the sun—” ’
It was at this moment that Mrs Carter entered the dining room.
‘Well, Miss Minton,’ she said. ‘How are the girls getting on? It’s nearly time to send a report to Dr Bullman. I hope you have it ready.’
Miss Minton looked at Beatrice, who was yawning, and at Gwendolyn, who was scratching her ear.
‘No, Mrs Carter,’ she said. ‘I do not have it ready. What’s more, I am not prepared to send a report unless the twins start to work properly. Ever since the reward came they have been impossible to teach. I think you had better write the report yourself.’
And while Mrs Carter gobbled with anger, Miss Minton got up from her chair.
‘There will be no more lessons today, girls,’ she said – and swept out of the room as though she was a person with rights and not a governess.
Maia had been in the dining room, fetching more paper, and heard everything. She could not help being pleased – but she was scared too. What if Mrs Carter sent Minty away?
The next day was Miss Minton’s afternoon off. Mrs Carter tried to stop her going, but Miss Minton said she had business to attend to in Manaus.
‘You’d better be careful, Miss Minton. I have dismissed governesses for less impertinence than you have shown in the last few days.’
‘I did not mean to be impertinent,’ said Miss Minton, but at lunchtime she was seen getting on the rubber boat, bound for the town.
‘Is everything all right, Minty?’ Maia asked before she left.
‘Everything is fine,’ said Miss Minton. ‘Or rather
it will be. Keep out of the way of the twins till I get back.’
But she had explained nothing.
Supper was never a cheerful meal in the House of Rest but that day it was like eating in a graveyard. Then halfway through the meal, Tapi came in with a letter brought by a special messenger who had vanished back into the dark.
‘Gonzales!’ said Mr Carter in a low voice, and took it into the study.
The letter was as bad as Carter had feared. Settlement day was tomorrow; he would meet Carter in his office by the docks. If Carter couldn’t pay, Gonzales was going to send in the bailiffs.
‘Bailiffs!’ cried Mrs Carter, when her husband at last told her the truth of what was happening. ‘Those dreadful people who take everything away! But they can’t!’
‘Unfortunately they can,’ said Carter. ‘Don’t you remember in Littleford . . .’
Mrs Carter began to sob. ‘Oh, not again! Not again! The disgrace . . .’ She gave a sudden shriek. ‘Lady Parsons’ portrait – they mustn’t have that. I’ll hide it first thing in the morning,’ she said wildly.
Mr Carter gave her a look. ‘That’s not worth much, but my collection . . .’
The twins, hearing raised voices, came down the corridor. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ they wanted to know.
‘Nothing, girls, nothing. It’s bedtime.’ Mrs Carter looked at the pouches round their necks. ‘Tomorrow that money goes to the bank and that’s my last word.’ Once the reward was in the bank, the manager would help her to work on the twins; it was ridiculous that they should keep it all when the family was in such trouble. ‘And don’t sleep in those things,’ she went on. ‘They could throttle you.’
Maia had gone to her room. She went to light her oil lamp but found that it had gone and only a single candle in an old brass candlestick stood by her bed. She went down to the twins’ room and, as she had expected, found that they had ‘borrowed’ her lamp.
‘It’s just for tonight,’ said Beatrice. ‘We need one each for what we’ve got to do.’
Maia was already in bed, trying to read by the light of the single candle, when there was a knock on the door and Tapi came in. She was dressed in her best clothes, but she looked worried.
‘We go to a wedding. A big wedding with dancing and eating. We must go because is Furo’s brother and he angry if we not there.’
‘It sounds fun, Tapi. I hope you enjoy it.’
‘Yes. We all go – my sister, Conchita, old Lila too. She not want to go but she must.’
Tapi sighed. There had been a furious row earlier when Lila said she could not go – none of them could go because they had promised to look after Maia – and Furo had said if they did not go, his brother would start a feud which could last for years.
In the end Lila had given in and now they were all setting off in the canoe for the long journey upriver to the village so as to be in time for the celebrations which began at dawn.
‘But you be very careful, yes? And Miss Minton she back soon. Here . . . is for you.’
And Tapi took a bunch of bananas and a mango from her basket and laid them on Maia’s bed.
It was strange with the Indians gone. No sound came from the huts; they had even taken the little dog.
Maia looked at the clock. The last boat should be in soon. She would stay awake and say goodnight to Miss Minton.
But she must have dozed off. When she looked again it was nearly ten o’clock. She hadn’t heard anyone come in but Minty could move very quietly when she chose.
Maia got out of bed. The house was silent and dark. She took her candle and knocked on Miss Minton’s door.
No reply. She knocked again. Then she pushed open the door and went in.
The room was empty. Miss Minton’s bed had not been slept in. But there was something else – something that frightened Maia badly.
Miss Minton’s trunk had gone.
Back in her room, Maia told herself not to be silly – but the fear would not go away. Miss Minton’s trunk was like . . . well, it was part of her. Hardly a day passed when she did not pick a book out and read Maia a passage or showed her a picture. If the trunk had gone, then surely it meant that the twins were right and Minty had left her?
The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Miss Minton being angry with the twins, standing up to Mrs Carter, going off when she was told not to.
Minty no longer cared what the Carters thought of her because she was going away.
Not since the news of her parents’ death had Maia felt so wretched and alone. She tried to tell herself that Minty would not leave her, but lying there in the darkness, she failed. After all, Finn had left her – people did go away. Her parents had done it too. They had gone to Egypt and left her at school.
And now Minty . . .
After another hour of tossing and turning, Maia went to the washstand and took two aspirins. Then she took a third for good measure, and at last she slept.
And slept deeply . . .
An hour later, Beatrice woke and felt under her pillow for the pouch with the money in it. Then she remembered what her mother had said. Tomorrow the money would go to the bank.
But Beatrice wouldn’t allow that. It was her money. Once it was in the bank, her mother could probably get hold of it, or her father . . . or anyone. And banks got robbed, everyone knew that.
Half-asleep still, she put a match to her lamp which flared up, leaving a stench of paraffin. She was going to find a safer hiding place. Blundering about, she took her pouch and opened her underclothes drawer. If she hid the money under her pile of vests it should be safe for a while. The drawer squeaked; she would hear it if anyone tried to open it.
But just as she was getting back into bed, Gwendolyn woke. She too felt under her pillow – and gave a little shriek. ‘It’s gone! My money’s gone! You’ve stolen it!’
Beatrice opened her eyes again.
‘Don’t be silly.’
Beatrice’s lamp was still alight. Now Gwendolyn lit the one they had taken from Maia and got out of bed.
‘I remember now,’ said Gwendolyn. ‘I put it under the clock. At least I think I did.’
Meanwhile, Beatrice had decided that her underclothes drawer wasn’t safe after all. She got up again and both girls blundered about, still half-asleep, looking for safer hiding places and bumping into things.
But now, in her room down the corridor, Mrs Carter woke up. She could hear the girls. What on earth were they up to? She put on her slippers and made her way to her daughters’ room. On the way she saw two large, brown beetles which narrowly missed her foot.
‘Cockroaches,’ shrieked Mrs Carter, and ran to her ‘larder’ to take down the can of Cockroach Killer.
She sluiced it over the tiles where she had seen the beetles, and hurried on to the twins’ room, the can dribbling in her hand.
‘What on earth is it? What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t find my money,’ wailed Gwendolyn. ‘It’s not under the clock. Beatrice has stolen it.’
‘I haven’t, you lying little grub. You put it in your shoe bag.’
‘Mind the lamp!’ shouted Mrs Carter as the girls began to fight. She grabbed for the lamp by Beatrice’s bed and as she did so, the top came off the can of Cockroach Killer and a sticky stream of black liquid poured out over the burning wick.
There was a loud whooshing noise and a tongue of flame shot up. Mrs Carter tried to put out the lamp and knocked it over. It was already too hot to touch. A curl of flame licked the sheets on Beatrice’s bed. The stream of Cockroach Killer was like a channel of fire which moved to the second bed.
Beatrice screamed as her nightdress caught at the hem, and Mrs Carter tried to beat out the flames with a pillow.
‘Out, girls . . . out. Not the window, the door. Hurry, hurry.’
But they could hardly see now for smoke. The second lamp, in the path of the fire, had exploded. And now the curtains were alight!
‘What’s happened? Wh
at’s the matter?’
Mr Carter had come running down the corridor, coughing. Now he opened the door, and the draught sent the flames up to ceiling height.
‘Push them out at the front,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll go back for Maia.’
He turned and stumbled back down the smoke-filled corridor. But he did not go to Maia’s room. He did not even try to. Instead, he groped his way in to his study and began to tear open his cabinets.
‘My collection,’ he muttered. ‘My collection . . .’
And his hand fastened on the velvet box of eyes just as he slid to the ground, overcome by the smoke and flames now rolling and licking through the bungalow.
Chapter Nineteen
Miss Minton woke in a four-poster bed and found herself staring at a picture of a Russian nobleman on a sledge being chased by wolves.
She was lying in a spare bedroom in the Keminskys’ house. Her head ached for she was not used to wine, and a lot of it had been drunk the night before at Mademoiselle Lille’s farewell party. The Keminskys’ governess was returning to France on the following day and Miss Minton had agreed to come and work for the Russian family, and teach Olga and Maia.
In spite of her aching head, Miss Minton was content. Maia would be happy here in this easy-going and friendly house, away from the ill temper of the twins and their parents’ strangeness. She had said nothing to Maia till Mr Murray had given his permission, but yesterday his cable had come. He had not only agreed to let Maia go and live with the Keminskys, he had arranged to send Maia’s allowance direct to Miss Minton at a different bank. It seemed that the British consul had already warned the old lawyer that the Carters were in trouble.
Miss Minton got up and dressed. Downstairs in the breakfast room, the countess was sitting over a big samovar, pouring out glasses of steaming Russian tea. Olga was beside her and got up to curtsy, but Mademoiselle Lille was still in her room.
‘She is having her breakfast in bed – she is a little . . . tired after last night,’ explained the countess.
Miss Minton smiled. Mademoiselle Lille was probably very tired – she had been so sad about leaving the Keminskys that she had comforted herself with an amazing amount of wine.