The Secrets of Drearcliff Grange School (15 page)

The upshot was that Harriet/Marion was in Switzerland. On the principle of ‘one in one out’, Rayne was duly delivered to the bosom of the worst House to be in if you were liable to be picked on. Viola had a poor record for protecting their own against even minor persecution, let alone a sustained campaign by the Murdering Heathens. Because of her stage heritage, Light Fingers had many dealings with Viola. She was acidic on the subject of the House’s theatrical posing and said some of their ‘stars’ relished roles which allowed them to suffer prettily… so they went out of their way to invite trouble. They imagined themselves Joan at the stake or Catherine on the wheel, and practised venomous forgiveness as they died in
déshabillé
.

Rayne’s unique uniform – if a uniform
could
be unique – stood out, a splash of black in a shower of grey. Therefore, Amy was aware of the new girl’s presence in assemblies for meals, indoor games or speeches from Mrs Wyke about the dangers of playing outside in the snow. So she was still alive, at least.

Gryce was stringing it out.

The big story was still the weather. De Vere’s duel with Captain Freezing continued. The snowman sprang up anew every time he was battered down, even sporting a replacement shako after de Vere threw his old one into the sea. The whip put a bounty of a cream tea in Watchet on the head of the culprit, payable when information received led to a conviction and a clouting. If anyone knew the identity of the perpetrator who left no footprints, no one was telling. Even Garland of the Second, the Semiramis of Tell-Tale Tessies, couldn’t find out who to snitch on. Besides pride in being School’s premier sneak, Garland had a particular mania for cream teas and being seen in town in the company of glamorous older girls. Her inability to ferret out the guilty party put her in a vile bate.

Each incarnation of Captain Freezing loomed larger and nearer the dorms, as if he were coming for de Vere. His coal-and-carrot features scowled more exaggeratedly, seemingly growing angrier. That might be fair enough: de Vere demolished him with escalating violence. When she set out to do harm, she braided her hair with battle-beads and striped black and red warpaint on her cheeks. She got frostbite and her hands were bandage-mittened, but she stuck to her Ahab-like mission. At the end of the week de Vere dragooned a party to scavenge driftwood, then built a paraffin-soaked circular bonfire around the snowman and set it alight. The whip led her conscripts in a death-chant as flames ran round the ring. The Captain collapsed in the heat, hissing as his insides melted. He spilled on to the burning wood and doused the fire, leaving the components of his face studded awry on a heap of slush. No one doubted he would be back. Even de Vere knew it was inevitable.

Priscilla ‘Prompt’ Rintoul, a round-faced Viola Third, was assigned to give Rayne the traditional guided tour. As stage manager, Prompt ruled the wings with ruthless efficiency when shows were running, but was otherwise overly meek even among her feeble sisterhood. Rayne might not be well served by such a model. The pair roamed the highways and byways, with Prompt pointing out features of interest to the solemnly attentive newcomer. The tour extended beyond the look-round Frecks had trotted Amy through. Doors were always being opened by Prompt so Rayne could peer into a room, nod as if memorising useful facts, and withdraw. More than once, chalk sticks were flung at the interloper.

The occasional resounding scream or oath indicated when the expedition ventured into forbidden territory – the Staff room, the Whips’ Hut, the QMWAACC armoury. Prompt was uncommonly thorough. Rayne toured School like a diminutive conquering general surveying occupied territory rather than a new bug lucky not to be booted into the sea. Amy remembered Paule said Rayne would bear watching and did flick the odd glance her way – though looking at that wrong uniform made her go cross-eyed and see spots. Purple spots, of course.

On Wednesday afternoon the Third Form endured Double R.I., a lesson legendary for
longeurs
. As Ponce Bainter recited a lengthy list of ancient fellows who begat other ancient fellows, with scarce mention of any part ancient fellowesses might have had in the matter, Amy was distracted by movement beyond the frosted windows.

Two small figures trudged across the frozen tundra which had once been playing fields. The black hat identified the titchier girl as Rayne. Prompt, wrapped in scarves and shawls like a tubby mummy, leant heavily on a vaulting pole, suffering for the sake of her mission. What exactly was the new girl being shown other than a hard time – and why wasn’t she in lessons yet? Amy had been tossed into History and Deportment before her trunk was unpacked.

Ponce noticed her wandering eyeline and commanded her to stand.

‘You are at hazard, Thomsett.’

Girls sat up straight and paid attention. This, at least, was more interesting than Mizraim begatting Ludim, Anamim, Lebahim, Naphtuhim, Harry Hawke and Uncle Tom Cobley and All. Bainter’s dreaded Three Questions trapfall was his way of tormenting an Infractor, often tossed at random because he felt like it. A Minor would go down in Amy’s Time-Table Book unless she gave three letter-perfect answers to questions on a random R.I. topic.

‘The subject is the Deaths of Bible Kings, Thomsett. Are you prepared?’

‘I am, Reverend Bainter, sir.’

‘Agag the Amalekite…?’

‘…was cut to pieces, sir, by the prophet Samuel, who said to him “as your sword has made women childless, so will your mother be childless among women”, sir.’

‘Abimelech of Manasseh…?’

‘…ordered his armour-bearer to pierce his heart, sir, with a sword because he was mortally wounded by a millstone dropped upon his head by a lady defender of the Tower of Thebaz—’

Cheers from several Tamora girls who had declared this unnamed Thebazite their heroine!

‘—and couldn’t bear for history to record, sir, that he had been slain by a woman.’

‘Adoni-Bezek of Canaan…’

‘…succumbed to an infection, sir, after his thumbs and big toes were cut off by Judah and Simeon, in imitation of his own method of humiliating vanquished enemies, sir.’

She sat down, escutcheon unstained, and darted a glance window-wards. Prompt and Rayne had moved on.

Bainter resumed the begatting and somnolence settled on the form.

The next day, Frecks and Amy were ambling to the Chem Lab, when Rayne and her guide appeared in Hypatia Hall, walking very straight down the centre of the corridor.

‘Frecks, old thing,’ Amy said, ‘Rintoul’s nabbed your job. She’s doing for Rayne what you did for me last term.’

‘She’s welcome to it. That was a one-time offer, for special customers… like you, my fondest friend and most devoted disciple.’

Amy reached out to tip Frecks’ boater off her head. She rose a few inches off the floor to get there and only succeeded in making the hat wobble.

‘Hands off the titfer, Thomsett! ’Tis sacred!’

The friends’ scuffle meant they blocked Rayne’s path. The other girls didn’t seem to notice Amy’s tiny float. She was always surprised so many failed to clock what Frecks drolly called ‘her lighter moments’. People chose not to see things which didn’t fit the way they understood the world.

Prompt cringed out of their way but Rayne stopped in her tracks.

It was possible that her eyes
hadn’t
missed the levitation. Amy resolved for the umpty-fifth time to be more cautious.

Laughing, Amy said ‘don’t mind us, ladies… we’re an old married couple… the barney never stops.’

Prompt smiled nervously. Rayne’s expression changed not a jot.

Frecks stuck a friendly paw out at the new new girl.

‘Pleased to meet you, Rayne. I’m Walmergrave and this is Thomsett. Welcome to the asylum.’

Rayne looked as if she were really confronted by two lunatics on the loose while touring a madhouse.

After a few moments, Frecks pumped empty air with her hand and took it back.

‘Please yourself,’ she said, not taking offence. ‘We’re off to stinks.’

Too late, Rayne formed a smile. She didn’t seem used to the expression. Her eyes remained set and neutral.

Without a hand to shake, the girl bobbed her black-boatered head and did something between a curtsey and a shrug.

She was at least trying.

‘Amy Thomsett,’ said Amy. ‘I was the last new bug so I know what it’s like. You’ll soon get used to Drearcliff ways.’

‘I think not,’ said Rayne, calm and cold. ‘There will be changes.’

‘Drearcliff’ll have to get used to your ways, eh?’ said Frecks. ‘Can’t say I hold out hope for that, what with Murdering Heathens on the rampage. But I admire your nerve. Good luck to you, Black Hat. You’ve no problems with me.’

‘I didn’t think I would have. But thank you for clearing up the matter.’

Amy wasn’t sure about Rayne’s manner. She was odd even for an odd ’un.

‘What school were you at before?’ she asked.

Prompt stepped in, protective yet peculiarly spooked. Her jowls were sweaty, though a chill wind blew down the corridor.

‘This is Rayne’s
first
school.’

There was a story there, then. Amy and Frecks looked to the subject for further elucidation, which was not forthcoming.

Rayne wore a burnished metal lapel brooch in the shape of an ant.

‘Antoinette Rowley Rayne,’ Amy said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be related to Professor Rosalind Rowley Rayne, would you? The entomologist and eugenicist.’

Now Rayne paid attention to her.

‘She is my mother.’

‘I have her
A Child’s Taxonomy of Arthropodiae
. It’s not much on moths.’

‘That is her
popular
work. It is inevitably simplified. She’d rather be judged by her twelve-volume
Introduction to Trilobites, Chelicerates, Myriapods, Crustaceans and Hexapods
.’

‘I have that on order at the library.’

Rayne looked Amy over as if she were cargo being inspected.

‘Your name again?’

‘Thomsett. Amy Thomsett.’

Amy was leery of offering her hand, but matched Rayne’s semi-curtsey. The new girl nodded… then moved on.

‘You’ve made a friend,’ said Frecks. ‘New bugs together, eh?’

Amy wasn’t sure. She didn’t feel befriended. She felt…
catalogued
.

E
VENTUALLY THE TOUR
of inspection concluded. Rayne had to come to lessons like any other girl. A desk was found and she took her place in the alphabetical order of the Third Form. Amy was five desks behind her, with Rintoul, Sawley, Sieveright, Stallybrass and Thicke in between.

The new girl took notes in a private shorthand. Her exercise books looked as if an insect had escaped from an inkwell and hopped and crawled over the pages. Rayne spoke only if directly addressed by a mistress. If something notionally droll were said, she faked laughter with the rest of the form. Teachers’ jokes were seldom genuinely funny, but braying hilarity was a requirement of an easy life – though girls had been Minored for overdoing the thigh-slapping and tears of mirth when Wicked said ‘we shall draw a
veil
over your prep’ to Morgana Vail or Fossil said ‘
alimentary
, my dear Watson’ to some girl who wasn’t called Watson.

Rayne’s address to School wasn’t forgotten – how
could
it be? – but she made no further declarations of intent. Her resolve to lead by example was apparently set aside. Aside from her uniform, she fit in. It was soon as if she had always been at Drearcliff Grange… along with the semolina, Joxer and the grim weather.

Amy only now realised School had done the same for her. On her first day, she should have looked more closely at the annual photographs. She suspected she’d have found her own face in them, like Headmistress, all the way back to the founding year. Before the Christmas hols, a new photograph had been taken. Amy was in that, with all her friends and enemies and nodding acquaintances. Their whole lives were bound within the walls of Drearcliff. She rarely thought about life before School or life outside School. It was as if she were born fully formed when she stepped off the down train. Home wasn’t home any more. School was.

Even Rayne’s uniform now seemed less radical. Amy noticed other girls wearing black hats or socks, if not the full kit. Inchfawn had been right – it was now an acceptable option. Few were likely to go fully black until the dust settled. For a start, there was a possibility the dust would be settling on Rayne’s grave.

From Light Fingers, who heard it from Prompt, Amy understood Rayne had received the customary visit from the Murdering Heathens. Her trunk contained no contraband – just approved clothes and books. She did not acknowledge Gryce as ringleader of the reception she’d been given in Chapel. She did not whimper when McClure applied a neck pinch that usually raised a high yelp. The puzzled torturer felt around Rayne’s shoulder and throat, pressing for nerves she couldn’t find. In the end, she slapped the new girl’s face and left it at that. Rayne shrugged off the pain like a fakir. Gryce didn’t know what to make of her. Lack of terror was a mute challenge. All School – with the exception of Rayne herself – assumed there would be a terrible reckoning.

As Rayne went about unmurdered, suspense grew. Smudge reported vile plans afoot. Even those who disbelieved on principle anything Smudge said nodded sagely. These were Damocletian Days. The Blade of Doom hung overhead. Rats stayed in their holes, Violas slyly practised expressions of heartfelt sorrow in their mirrors, Mauve Mary was unseen and unheard, Nellie Pugh refused further bets on the Dread Day and Antoinette Rowley Rayne was a Walking Dead Girl.

Only Palgraive smiled when Rayne hove in view, and she smiled at
everyone
. Sensible folk scarpered, just in case. Wherever Rayne went, Rintoul tagged along, lagging far enough behind to claim she wasn’t with her. As unconcerned as Rayne seemed to be, Prompt was terrified – she shed weight at a time when other girls were stuffing themselves against the cold.

‘They’ll leave me be,’ Prompt told Light Fingers. ‘They always have to leave someone alive
to tell the tale
.’