The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow (22 page)

Sophie tiptoed cautiously down a long, empty corridor. The room where she had been imprisoned had been richly furnished, and was obviously in regular use, but this passageway was quite different. Even in the dim light, she could see that the parquet floor had given way to bare floorboards. They creaked eerily beneath her feet as she crept forward, trying to make as little sound as possible. The ceiling was threaded with cobwebs and the windows were all heavily boarded up: only a few stray beams of light sneaked in from outside. Here and there, doors opened up on to empty rooms with yellowing wallpaper peeling off in long strips, or an old, mildew-speckled rug. Her heart was thudding and her whole body felt taut with tension. What
was
this place?

She hurried on, still a little unsteady on her feet, and once or twice stumbling on the uneven floor. In the darkest parts of the passageway, she had to feel her way through the shadow, one hand tracing the crumbling walls. All the time her thoughts were scurrying. Could the Baron or any of his men be somewhere in the building? Or had she been left here quite alone? Either way, she was in no doubt that she wanted to get out, and quickly.

At last, the passage led her to a flight of stairs that spiralled downwards into darkness. She looked back over her shoulder, but there was no other way to go. She would have to go down.

Down, down, down Sophie went, testing each stair with her toes as she did so. The staircase seemed to wind on forever, but at last she reached solid ground. She was standing in a low-ceilinged, stone-flagged passage: she could feel the coldness of the stones seeping up through her thin satin slippers. In the dim light she could see there was a lamp standing on a dusty old table, and she picked it up in relief. There was even a box of matches beside it. Without pausing to think, she struck one. Its small yellow glow in the darkness was soothing.

Her hands still trembling, she lit the lamp, glad to see the familiar warm light fill the darkness. But even as she let herself relax, she began to wonder what a new oil lamp and a fresh box of matches could be doing here, without the thick film of dust that covered everything else around her. Someone else had been here, and recently. For all she knew, that someone might be nearby at this very moment.

Trying to swallow the dread that was rising up within her, she went on, lifting the lantern high and shining it into every corner. She was in an old cellar, empty but for the occasional barrel or a rack containing a few dusty wine bottles. The cold, damp air ran over her skin and made her shiver: it smelled thick and musty. Each empty room seemed to lead on to another and another, and there was still no sign of a way out. There
had
to be one somewhere, she reasoned, trying to keep her composure. But there were only more and more empty cellars, until she could no longer remember from which direction she had originally come.

A cold panic cascaded over her, and a sob escaped her, horrifyingly loud in the dark. And that was when she heard it: a distant noise, first a shuffling and then a horrible, heavy dragging sound, like something sweeping over the floor. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Instead she ran, clutching the lantern tightly, stumbling over the stone flags until she hit a wall. For a second or two, she felt too dizzy to move, but then she realised that her hand was resting on something, something hard and cold. Her fingers grasped it: a handle. It was a door. She had actually found a door!

She pulled wildly at the handle, but it didn’t move. The rasping sound came once more and a rush of fear swept over her. She fumbled again, and at last the handle moved with a crunch, and she dragged open the door, falling through it and dropping the lamp in her panic. The heavy door swung closed behind her, plunging her into sudden and complete blackness.

In the dark, her shaking hands found the lamp and the matchbox. Twice she dropped a match before she managed to get the lamp lit once again.

As she struggled to gather her wits, she realised that the horrible sound she had heard had vanished, to be replaced only with a heavy silence. The musty smell had gone too. She felt as if she was in some strange airtight chamber under the ocean. The lamplight revealed what appeared to be another cellar, but this time it was quite clean, free of dust and cobwebs. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with storage boxes and crates. It could almost have been one of the neatly organised storerooms at Sinclair’s, she thought in confusion. Across the room was a large metal safe.

‘It’s a strongroom,’ she whispered aloud, her voice taking on an unearthly, hollow sound.

Trying to slow her racing heart, she looked around the room, shining the lantern into all the corners. There was nothing more to be seen, but she went over to the shelves and picked up a small wooden crate at random. Lifting the lid, she saw a bed of soft straw, and nestling within it, something that sparkled brilliantly. She picked it up and examined it in the light of the lantern. It was an enormous purple gemstone. The next crate held a diamond tiara. These were the jewels, she realised, in growing amazement. Here, neatly packed away in this strongroom were the rest of the stolen goods from Sinclair’s Exhibition Hall.

For a moment she hesitated, uncertain what to do, but then she replaced the lid firmly on the box. The most important thing was to get out of this place. She was the only one who knew what was going to happen at Sinclair’s and the only one who could stop it. And there was only one way to do that: she would have to leave the safety of the strongroom, venture back into the empty house and try to find a way out.

She went back towards the door and cautiously drew it open, hoping against hope that she would not again hear that terrible noise in the darkness again. Gathering her courage, she made herself step outside, holding the lamp aloft. This time she went carefully along, following the wall, trying to keep track of her steps. She wished for a staircase or a ladder, anything to take her up and away from this underground labyrinth, but instead at last she came upon something quite different: a low, round brick tunnel, running away from her into pitch-blackness. The air was cold and had a swampy smell; muddy water pooled on the floor; and there was the sound of trickling water echoing somewhere in the distance.

The lantern illuminated an arrow that had been drawn on the brick wall in white chalk. It was pointing straight down the tunnel. Making up her mind, Sophie swung the beaded evening bag over her shoulder and lifted the lantern. For a few seconds, she looked regretfully down at the swinging skirt of her best dress, and the dainty satin slippers that Lil had given her. Then she stepped down into the muddy water, and set off once again, into the dark.

A
s the clock struck eleven, the music suddenly halted, and the dancers paused. There was a hush, and a fizz of anticipation seemed to rise around the room. Then a spotlight snapped on, and a collective intake of breath could be heard, as Mr Sinclair himself materialised, framed in a perfect circle of light. He stood up in the gallery, high above the throng below. A champagne glass was in his hand and he wore an exquisite dress coat over a snowy white waistcoat, against which a gold watch chain gleamed.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, his distinctive, drawling voice ringing out across the Entrance Hall. ‘Thank you for joining me to celebrate the opening of Sinclair’s department store. I am delighted to welcome you all here tonight. As you know, Sinclair’s is no ordinary shop, and as such, it is only appropriate that this is no ordinary evening. Tonight, the store is yours: explore as you will – there are all manner of surprises to be found. Lose yourselves and see what you discover. First, though, I ask you to raise your glasses and join me in a toast . . .’

Below him, a forest of champagne glasses was held aloft as the guests replied together: ‘To Sinclair’s!’

Billy burst out of the side door into the stable-yard. It was swelteringly hot inside the building – he could not imagine how the young gentlemen managed to look so cool and suave in their dress coats. He felt uncomfortably sticky in his uniform, and weary from hurrying about the store. The night air, full of the familiar smoky smell of the city, was pleasantly cool against his face.

The stable-yard was deserted now: all of the drivers and grooms had long gone, for they were not, of course, bothering with any deliveries tonight. Everything purchased by the party guests was to be packed and sent out on Monday morning, the boxes tied with special gold ribbons to commemorate the opening gala. Billy leaned back against the cold brick of the wall, his ears ringing with the sounds of the party and his head full of confused thoughts.

He was still struggling to take in what he had overheard in Mr Sinclair’s office. He had thought that Bert was supposed to make a full recovery – and had clung to the hope that once he was well, he might confess the truth about the burglary and prove that Sophie hadn’t been involved. Now he was dead – and none of the other Sinclair’s staff had the slightest idea.
Under the circumstances, we daren’t risk any distractions
, he heard Mr Sinclair say again in his cool voice. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling quite sickened, and then, unexpectedly, he experienced a wave of sorrow. He had never really liked Bert much, but it was such an awful thing to have happened.

And the shooting had been right here in the yard, he realised with a sudden shiver. It was creepy out in the dark, and for a moment he thought about going back inside and finding somewhere to read the
Boys of Empire
he carried in his pocket to distract his racing thoughts. But he knew that there wasn’t really enough time: he dared not take more than a few minutes’ break.

For once, he was determined to focus on the job, and nothing else, to show his uncle that he wasn’t just a lazy kid who couldn’t do a decent day’s work. He had scrubbed his hands until they felt raw, polished his boots until they were almost as shiny as Uncle Sid’s own and had even managed to flatten his unruly hair with some pomade he had borrowed from Monsieur Pascal. He had followed every instruction to the letter. As he’d gone about his duties, faces around him had appeared and melted away into the crowd again: Miss Kitty Shaw, at the centre of a group of adoring young men, raising her champagne glass as if in a toast; Miss Atwood instructing one of the waiters; Mr McDermott, standing up in the gallery, surveying the scene with a watchful expression on his face; and often Mr Cooper, slipping through the crowd like a dark shadow – but he was determined not to be distracted. Each time Billy caught sight of the store manager, he began to wonder again about the revolver and what danger might be at hand, but he forced himself to push his speculations away. He would not think any more about Bert’s death either. It wasn’t his job to wonder about such things: he was not, and never would be Montgomery Baxter.
Know your place. Don’t ask questions
, Uncle Sid reminded him in his head.

‘
Psst!
’

He thought he must have imagined the sound that came out of the dark: probably his ears playing tricks on him after the noise of the party. But then it came again, more insistent and urgent now: ‘
Pssst! Billy!
’

Billy looked around him, startled and uncomfortable now. As a figure loomed out of the darkness he stepped back, then he realised to his relief that it was only Joe. But what on earth was he doing out here at this time of night?

Joe jerked his head to the side, indicating that Billy should come over into the shadows where they couldn’t be seen. His eyes were darting from side to side nervously, and Billy felt a prickle of apprehension.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, trotting over to him.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ said Joe, sounding cagey and unlike himself. ‘You ought to come down to the basement.’

‘I can’t,’ said Billy, confused. A chat in the basement would be all very well and good, but surely Joe must realise that he couldn’t just wander off like that in the midst of the party? ‘Uncle Sid’ll throw a fit if I don’t go straight back to work.’

‘I think you should,’ said Joe uneasily.

‘I honestly can’t,’ Billy said. ‘I don’t want to get in any more trouble. I’ll try and come down later, perhaps.’

‘I’m telling you, you’ve got to come down
now
,’ said Joe, his voice full of urgency.

‘Why? Whatever’s the matter?’ he demanded.

Joe looked uncomfortable. ‘There’s someone who wants to see you.’

Sophie hurriedly splashed her face with water. She was shivering in her thin dress, but she didn’t feel cold, only slightly numb. She was glad to feel the freshness of the water after the dank, foul-smelling air of the tunnels. She had begun to think she would be trapped down there forever. The light of her lamp had cast strange, spiky shadows and there had been no sound but the steady drip-drip-drip of water somewhere, the shuffle and splash of her own feet, and in the distance, faint skittering sounds that she told herself, over and over again, were only rats.

The end of the passageway had come out of nowhere. Even before she had seen the door chalked with a large letter S, even before she had clawed it desperately open and smelled that unmistakable perfume of rose and violet, she had known by some peculiar instinct exactly where she would emerge. She had come up damp and dirty and breathless in the darkened basement of Sinclair’s department store, behind rows of glossy furs.
Deliver sparrow underground by ten
. Mr Cooper had been communicating with the Baron all along, she realised, astounded. He had been going to and fro through the underground passage that led directly from the fur storage room in the basement of Sinclair’s to the cellars of the Baron’s strange old house.

She had felt almost faint with relief as she stumbled forwards, her hands grasping the softness of the furs. From somewhere that seemed very far above her, she had heard the dull hum of music and voices, the faint tinkling of a piano, the sound of someone singing, and she realised these were the noises of the opening party, taking place at this very moment. As she had stood there, half-frozen, she had heard the clock in the Entrance Hall begin to strike eleven. As if the chimes had snapped a switch somewhere deep inside her, she felt more certain than ever of what she must do. There were hundreds of people in the shop upstairs who were in terrible danger – people that the Baron would cheerfully obliterate to further his own ends – amongst them, Lil and her friends. She had to stop him.