The Glass Bird Girl (17 page)

She left the dormitory and walked back to the common room. Alice was helping Sally with her homework, Belinda and Rose were playing a raucous card game and giggling uncontrollably. Some other girls were sitting cross-legged on the floor playing jacks. Several glanced at Edie when she came into the room, but none said anything to her and no wonder – she looked, at that moment, as though she would bite off the head of anyone who dared!

Red-handed!

E
die slept badly. Her throat was sore, and when she woke up next morning her forehead felt clammy. She was worried – it would be just her luck to get ill now, and be ordered to bed. But once she had got dressed she felt a little better, and went down to breakfast grimly determined not to let the row with Anastasia get in the way of her detective work.

Last night Anastasia's behaviour had seemed so spoilt Edie had almost given up on her. But she knew she couldn't. Somehow the fact Anastasia had seen Dr Browning made Edie certain that her friend was in real danger, and now that Cousin Charles had turned his back on the case she felt that Anastasia needed her more than ever.

She was still suspicious of Miss Mannering, but it
was Dr Browning who worried her more. Everything she had heard about him made her uneasy. Why was he so interested in Prince Stolonov? And as for his having a Russian accent, and enjoying secret meetings with Miss Winifred in the Blue Kettle . . . it was all highly suspicious.

Cousin Charles was no longer her master, but Edie had not forgotten his advice: ‘
If you can't get at your suspect, look at the people close to them
.' Dr Browning was out of Edie's reach, but she could still investigate Miss Winifred – and she would start by searching her office.

She bided her time until tea, when Miss Winifred was on duty in the dining room, then slipped off alone to the North Tower. It was already dark, and though the corridors were deserted Edie found herself walking on tiptoe, her heart beating faster with every step. She passed Miss Mannering's study, which was a short way down the corridor from Miss Winifred's. The door was closed, and there was no light coming from inside. Miss Winifred's door was the same. Edie feared it might be locked, but when she turned the handle the door swung open.

She crept inside, and found herself in a large, lowceilinged room, with an oak desk facing her in the centre of it, and two armchairs crouched, phantom-like, on either side of an unlit fire. The curtains had been left open to the moonless sky and the only light was the dim yellow glow from the corridor.

She decided to leave the door ajar, so she would hear if anyone approached, but as she walked to Miss Winifred's desk the only sound was the thumping in her
chest. She had borrowed Sally's torch, giving her a half-baked story about wanting to go and look for a book she thought she had left behind on the lacrosse pitch, and she turned it on now and flashed it over the desk. It was tidy, arranged with several stacks of books and two piles of marking covered in Miss Winifred's thin, spidery red pen. There was also a large black diary. Edith opened it, and started skimming hurriedly through the entries for the last few weeks, but they contained only details of Miss Winifred's school timetable.

Then she started work on the drawers. There were six on either side of the desk, each containing thick bundles of letters and papers, and Edie wondered where to begin. She started randomly pulling out documents, scouring them for any mention of Anastasia or Dr Browning's name. But all she found were school reports . . . a bill from Miss Winifred's dentist . . . a listing of the term's lacrosse fixtures. There was also a watch with the name
May Senior
engraved on the back. Edie was puzzled. She did not recognise the name.

Then, in the last drawer but one, she noticed a blue book poking from beneath a jumble of postcards. She pulled it out, and saw the name A
NASTASIA
S
TOLONOV
engraved in thin gold letters on the cover. It was the missing notebook! She felt a shock of triumph. So it wasn't the Man who had been stealing Anastasia's things – it was Miss Winifred. But it made no sense. Could it be that Miss Winifred was setting out to make Anastasia appear unstable, so that she could be passed into the hands of Dr Browning . . . ? If so, why? Edie's mind
started to somersault wildly as she tried to imagine what they were plotting.

Then something else in the drawer caught her eye – a red plastic folder, which had been lying underneath Anastasia's notebook. She took it out. The folder was not labelled and there were only a few loose documents inside. Edie emptied them onto the desk. One was a map, which seemed to be showing the inside of a large building complex – a train station, perhaps, or an airport – but the print was too faint to make out. She glanced at the door, then sat down on Miss Winifred's chair and pored over the map with her torch. It was covered with strange markings and words she did not understand, but she recognised from Anastasia's books that the language was Russian.

She turned hurriedly to the next document. This page bore the logo of a ferry company, and was the confirmation of a booking for a car and three passengers to travel on a night crossing from Ramsgate to Ostend. But it was the passengers' names that made Edie's pulse quicken.

One was Miss Caroline Fotheringay.

The second was Mr Vladimir Britianov.
Britianov
. . . Edith whispered the name out loud, as suddenly Anastasia's casual remark about Dr Browning echoed through her mind . . . ‘
Lots of Russians working in England use English names . . . his real name's Britianov – I noticed it on a letter on his desk
.'

So Miss Fotheringay knew Dr Browning too.

Edie felt a sudden foreboding. She looked down the page and saw that the crossing was booked for 28
November – tomorrow night; and the ticket was only one-way. Surely Miss Fotheringay didn't intend to abandon the school in the middle of term?

The last passenger was Miss Darya Britianov, who was listed as a child. Edie supposed it must Mr Britianov's daughter. But then she noticed one more item inside the folder – a passport – and when she opened it she saw that it was Darya Britianov who was named inside. But it was the photograph that made Edie's heart stop.

The photograph was of Anastasia.

Edie stared at it wildly, then with a trembling hand she took a piece of paper and copied down the details of the ferry crossing and the registration number of the car, and scrunched the note into her pocket. She returned all the documents to the red folder and replaced it in the drawer, so engrossed she did not hear the door opening behind her. It was not until the lights plunged on that she looked up and saw the tall, grass-like figure of Miss Winifred moving soundlessly towards the desk. Edie sprang from her chair in terror.

‘Edith Wilson. What a surprise . . .'

Edie grabbed Anastasia's diary from the desk and staggered backwards.

‘Give that to me,' Miss Winifred said. Her voice was quiet, but her face wore the flicker of a violent smile.

Edie knocked into a filing case, and as she stumbled to the floor Miss Winifred snatched the book from her hand.

‘What . . . what are you doing? I don't understand . . . what are you doing to her?' Edie cried, her voice choked
by fear.

‘You are hysterical, Edith,' Miss Winifred said coldly. She reached down and pulled her roughly to her feet, marching her to the desk with her arm twisted tight behind her back.

Edie gasped in pain. Miss Winifred returned the book to its drawer then, with a look of brutal intent, took out a pile of papers and placed them on her desk.

‘Miss Fotheringay?' she said, picking up the telephone and talking in a low dramatic voice. ‘I'd be grateful if you could come and assist me . . . I have found Edith Wilson in my study – stealing examination papers.'

Uncrackable?

‘
O
f course the child must be expelled,' said Miss Winifred, standing by the window of Miss Fotheringay's study with a wild look on her face.

Miss Fotheringay sat very still behind her desk. ‘Diana? What is your view?'

That Miss Mannering had a view could hardly be in doubt. She had arrived in the study shortly after Miss Winifred, not waiting for an invitation before marching in and sitting down stiffly on the sofa. ‘There needs to be an investigation, clearly, but we should not be hasty in jumping to conclusions,' she said, without looking in Miss Winifred's direction.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' spat Miss Winifred. ‘She has been caught red-handed sneaking a peek at examination papers. The girls are all talking about it. We have to
make an example of her.'

‘How do the girls
know
what she's done?' Miss Mannering asked quietly.

‘I-I didn't tell them,' Miss Winifred answered, with an air of sudden confusion. ‘But I see that you are determined to play this matter down and I won't stand for it. There has been a great deal of upset in the first-years this term, and I have good reason to believe that Edith Wilson has been behind it all. She's not merely a cheat; she's become obsessed by the poor Stolonov girl, and has been persecuting her under the guise of friendship. It is imperative we have her removed from the school this afternoon. If you won't support me I must offer you my resignation – and I shall file a full report to the governors,' she added breathlessly.

‘Please believe me,' Miss Fotheringay said calmly, ‘that the last thing I want is to question your judgement—'

‘Then perhaps you'll think twice before doing so,' Miss Winifred replied, and abruptly left the room.

‘What an extraordinary display,' Miss Mannering said, staring at the slammed door.

Miss Fotheringay's expression was pained. ‘She is angry, Diana, and so am I. We have given that child every chance and now for her to reveal herself as a low-grade cheat—'

Miss Mannering snorted. ‘I don't believe any of it.'

‘What can you mean?'

‘I mean, Caroline, that whatever Edith Wilson was doing in Celia's office, she wasn't looking for examination papers. I called in to speak to her in the sickroom
on my way here—'

‘You—?'

‘Yes, Caroline,' Miss Mannering replied sharply. ‘I'm afraid I cannot respect your decision to place an unhappy child in solitary confinement.'

‘I put her in the sickroom because she had a temperature,' Miss Fotheringay replied defensively. ‘Anyway, did you get anywhere?'

‘She wouldn't talk to me, if that's what you mean – she doesn't like me,' Miss Mannering said matter-of-factly. ‘But when I mentioned the examination papers her expression changed from caginess to confusion. She doesn't seem to understand what she's been accused of. The only thing she seemed interested in was talking to Anastasia. She kept saying her name, begging me to let her see her. There was something in her face, something—' Miss Mannering paused, thoughtful. ‘All I can say for certain, Caroline, is that Edith Wilson is a very frightened child.'

‘As most children would be, after being caught with exam papers in their hand,' Miss Fotheringay said bluntly. ‘As for wanting to see Anastasia, I'm afraid this rather supports Celia's contention that she's obsessed by her.'

‘Celia has no proof.'

‘She believes she does. Before you arrived she told me she had found something belonging to Anastasia in Edith's bedside table – a glass bird or some such. Edith must have taken it – not to mention all the other things which have been going missing.'

‘Anastasia's “losses” pre-date Edith's arrival at the
school,' Miss Mannering replied.

‘What are you suggesting, Diana?'

‘I don't know, Caroline. Only that something isn't right and that you should look into it.'

‘But if the child won't talk?'

‘She'll talk to you,' Miss Mannering said firmly.

‘You're wrong about that. When I took her to the sickbay she wouldn't even look at me. She is an unusually secretive child, Diana.'

‘So having failed to subdue her you now wish to wash your hands of her?'

‘I didn't say that,' Miss Fotheringay replied. She sat with her hands clasped together to form a church and tapped her lips with the steeple. ‘I am simply suggesting that Edith Wilson may be uncrackable.'

Miss Mannering snorted. ‘And what about Anastasia?' she demanded, her tone suddenly impatient. ‘Do we reckon she's cracked? I gather you've put her in the hands of a shrink.'

‘How do you know?' Miss Fotheringay asked sharply.

‘Everybody's talking about it. She's being teased for being demented on top of everything else.'

‘As I understand it Anastasia specifically requested to see the doctor.'

‘
As you understand it?
' Miss Mannering retorted. ‘Do you mean that you were not directly involved in her going to see him?'

Miss Fotheringay appeared flustered. ‘Not exactly. Celia recommended him. She arranged it all.'

‘And have you checked him out?'

‘No. But Celia seemed to think very highly of him. Why would she . . . ?' Miss Fotheringay frowned, then let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Really, Diana, don't you think I've got enough on my plate.'

‘I think you've had Edith Wilson on your plate!' Miss Mannering returned in a stinging tone. ‘You have been so preoccupied with that child, it's made you neglect your duties to others. I think it is very peculiar of you, Caroline, to send a disturbed pupil – if she is disturbed – to see a stranger without first checking on his credentials. The mental health world is chock-a-block with cranks and charlatans. Surely
you
don't need
me
to tell you that.'

Miss Fotheringay was silent.

‘The least you could do is speak to Helen's mother,' Miss Mannering went on crisply. ‘Doesn't she oversee all child psychiatric services in the county?'

‘Yes, indeed,' Miss Fotheringay said, a note of irritation in her voice. ‘Thank you, Diana. I will call her.'

Miss Mannering looked as though she would like to stay and make sure it was done. Then she seemed to change her mind, and left the room abruptly.

Miss Fotheringay had been standing by her desk, her hand poised on the telephone, but as the door closed she crossed to the sofa, and sat caressing her cat. ‘Well, Black Puss,' she murmured, placing a hand under his chin, and turning his face to hers, ‘in future we shall have to be more careful.'

‘They told me not to let anyone see you,' Matron said, putting down a cup of tea on Edie's bedside table. ‘Now
why was that, I wonder?'

Edie, who was lying crouched on the pillow, with her knees drawn up to her chin, rolled over and looked at her with the furtive air of a trapped animal.

‘Well, it must be something pretty bad,' Matron went on, watching her curiously. ‘But between you and me, Edith Wilson, I've never known a school with so many rules. It's a wonder you're not all breaking them all the time.'

Edie pulled herself up, her face clouded with fear. ‘Will you help me?' she whispered.

‘If I can,' Matron said casually, ‘though the chances are—'

‘I need to talk to Anastasia. Please – please find her for me.'

Matron shook her head. ‘I'm sorry, but I'm under strict instructions. You know what they're like here, love – I don't want to be on the wrong side of those mistresses any more than you do.'

Edie looked at her flatly, before burying her face back in the pillow.

‘I could fetch you a book from the library if you tell me what you'd like,' Matron said, but Edie lay motionless.

Matron retreated to her adjoining room, and sank into her rocking chair with a sigh. On the table beside her, resting on a pile of crossword puzzles, was an old Navy flashlight Miss Fotheringay had given her to mend. She picked it up now and turned it on, screwing her eyes with pleasure as its glare filled the dimly lit room. ‘
I know there's nothing you can't fix
,' Miss Fotheringay had said, smiling, when she had brought it to Matron's room
last night.

Torches were one thing. Unhappy children were harder to fix.

She was still deep in thought when the pale, tearful face of Anastasia appeared at the door. ‘Hello, dear. What can I do for you?' Matron asked, welcoming her with a smile.

‘Have you got Edie in there?' Anastasia asked, nodding towards the sickroom.

‘No visitors,' Matron said wearily.

‘Oh, please let me, Matron,' Anastasia implored. ‘She's been accused of something she didn't do and they're going to send her away and it's all my fault.' Anastasia moved towards the door, but Matron stood up to block her.

‘If she's been accused of something she didn't do, then it's Miss Fotheringay you should talk to,' she said firmly.

‘Miss Fotheringay won't believe me,' Anastasia said. ‘No one believes me in this school, no one—'

‘Diddums,' Matron said, producing a tube of toffees from her bulging apron pocket. ‘Get out the violins, shall we?'

Anastasia smiled wanly. Then she tried a different tack. ‘Darling Matron,
please
let me just say goodbye to Edie,' she began, with a beseeching expression. ‘I won't tell anyone you've let me in – please . . . you've always been so kind to me, you're the only one who ever understands . . .'

‘Flattery gets you nowhere,' Matron replied, looking amused.

‘What about bribery?' Anastasia ventured. ‘I'll bring
you the biggest pot of caviar you've ever seen.'

‘What sort of fool do you mistake me for? Bribery curdles into blackmail sooner than milk into cream.'

‘Not with me,' Anastasia promised.

Matron wrinkled her nose. ‘Caviar – revolting stuff. You can leave your over-priced fish eggs at the bottom of your Black Sea. But go on, then. Be quick and then get back where you came from, before you're missed.'

Anastasia threw her arms around her, before slipping into the sickroom and closing the door.

Edie lay curled on the bed, turned to the wall. She had been drifting in and out of sleep, and had no idea how much time had passed when she felt the feather-like touch on her arm.

‘Anastasia? Who – who saw you . . . careful, they—'

‘Sssh, it's all right, Matron let me through,' Anastasia said, sitting and clutching her hand. ‘But I haven't got long. Edie, I'm so sorry – I was horrid yesterday. I—' She stopped. Edie had said nothing, but something in her eyes seemed to tell Anastasia that there was no need of apologies now. ‘Oh, Edie, tell me what happened – everyone's saying such awful things.'

‘What things?'

‘They're saying that you were caught stealing maths papers and that you're going to be expelled – and it's all my fault, Edie, all of it! I should never have let you risk all that just to try and find my notebook.'

Edie shook her head impatiently, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘It wasn't just the notebook I found. Oh,
Anastasia, everything's much worse than we had any idea of. You were right about running away . . . we've got to . . .' Edie had a sudden vision of Anastasia's pale, expressionless face staring from the stranger's passport, and glanced wildly at the door.

‘Quick, Edie, tell me what you found.'

Edie swallowed hard, and told her first about the ferry tickets.

Anastasia frowned. ‘Britianov? That's Dr Browning's other name.'

Edie nodded.

‘Tell me, Edie, what else did you find?' Anastasia asked quietly.

When Edie told her about seeing her photograph inside Darya Britianov's passport, the blood drained from Anastasia's face.

‘Kidnap,' she said flatly. She was silent for a moment as the information sank in. ‘They all said Mama was paranoid to be so frightened about kidnap, and I thought it too. But now it's happening – and it's Mama's worst nightmare coming true.'

‘It won't happen, Anastasia!' Edie said, clutching her arm. ‘I won't let it!'

‘I'm supposed to be seeing the doctor tomorrow. Miss Winifred's meant to be taking me there after breakfast. I must run away, tonight.'

‘
We
,' Edie said firmly. ‘I'm coming too. But where can we go?'

Anastasia looked at her doubtfully. ‘Are you sure you want to come? They said— Oh, Edie, you don't look well.'

‘I'm fine,' Edie said impatiently, pulling herself up on the pillows. ‘Anyway, I can't stay here . . . Miss Winifred knows I'm on to her – though no one will believe me now she's labelled me a cheat.'

Anastasia squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you, Edie,' she whispered. ‘Now listen,' she went on hurriedly, hearing Matron moving about on the other side of the door. ‘There's a barn beyond Helen's tower, I saw it from the top window – it's not far, about half a mile further on. We can sleep there tonight, then tomorrow—' She stopped, seeing Matron's heavy brogue shoe protrude around the edge of the door.