The Secrets of Drearcliff Grange School (8 page)

She showed this to Frecks and Light Fingers, who approved.

Then, using an India rubber, Amy wiped away the pencil – rendering invisible the secret charter of the Moth Club. Its imprint remained on the paper and would emerge if anyone were to rub a pencil-nib over the seemingly blank spaces between the lines.

Amy signed her name in ink under the official and shadow charter, and passed the book to Frecks, who signed with a flourish, and Light Fingers, who had to think hard to make her signature.

‘We should take code names,’ said Frecks. ‘Secret
secret
handles. Moth names. Thomsett, you’re the expert. You pick.’

‘Where are your people from?’

‘Lincolnshire,’ said Frecks.

‘Willow Ermine,’ she said, printing it in small letters under Frecks’ swish of a signature. ‘Its wings look like little Lords’ robes, white with tiny black spots. Light Fingers?’

‘I’m not from anywhere. Mum and Dad were theatricals, on tour all the time.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘The Theatre Royal, King’s Lynn. Between houses.’

‘Large Dark Prominent.’

‘Pardon?’

‘It’s a moth. Very rare. The only specimen known in the British Isles was bred in Norfolk, near King’s Lynn.’

She wrote down the name.

‘What about you?’ asked Frecks.

‘Kentish Glory,’ said Amy, lettering it under her signature.

‘But you’re from Worcestershire,’ complained Light Fingers.

‘So is the Kentish Glory,’ she said. ‘
Endromidae: Endromis versicolora
. Catalogued by Linnaeus in 1758.’

She flipped back the pages to show the sketch – mostly in brown pencil – she had made. The Kentish Glory was the rarest moth she had catalogued to date. It had visited her grandmama’s garden two summers ago, and had held still on a leaf as if posing for Amy’s pencils, fluttering off as soon as the sketch was finished.

Light Fingers produced a needle from her sewing box. They all pricked their forefingers, stuck little full stops of blood after their names to seal the pact, and sat on their cots, sucking their fingers.

The Moth Club was founded.

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
, well after Lights Out, the Moth Club crept along the corridor. They presented strange figures.

They reasoned that if their foes were
hooded
, they must be
masked
.

Born and raised in theatres and naturally quick with a needle, Light Fingers was an Old Reliable for the Drearcliff Ballet Club, the Viola Dramatic Society, the Arthur Wing Pinero Players (who existed thanks to a bequest from an Old Girl which maintained the Drearcliff Playhouse in a state of acceptable plushness – on the condition that the school mount annual productions of a work by the author of
The Gay Lord Quex
and
The Second Mrs Tanqueray
), the Ragged Revue and the Christmas Mummers. For every play, recital or presentation, Light Fingers made or altered costumes to order. Therefore, she had knowledge of and free access to the catacombs under the Playhouse. Here, props, scenery and costumes – some dating to the last century – were stored. Smudge said the storage cellars were haunted by a Viola Fifth who foolishly drowned herself while taking the role of Ophelia too seriously in the ’08 Senior Production of Bowdler’s
Hamlet
. The theatrical spectre purportedly dripped on the floor and wailed her mad scene among hanging doublets and hose. Light Fingers was not afraid of such silly-goose ghosts.

There were no lessons on Saturday afternoons. Girls were expected to pursue their
enthusiasms
. Having raided the catacombs for raw materials, Light Fingers worked in their cell – prickling somewhat at the many and contradictory suggestions from her ‘customers’ – to run up ensembles suitable for the Moth Club’s secret missions.

Now, Amy, Frecks and Light Fingers wore wood-nymph body stockings from some forgotten sylvan ballet, tight-fitting balaclava helmets from an unsuccessful dramatic recital of
The Charge of the Light Brigade
, sturdy dance pumps, and lightweight cloaks passed down through generations of ‘courtiers, attendants, guards, clowns, & co.’. The costumes were set off by moth-shaped domino masks, with feathery pipe-cleaner antennae and trailing wings which covered their lower faces. The cloaks, masks and body stockings were appropriate for their code-name species: Kentish Glory was a brownish rust, Willow Ermine white with small black dots and Large Dark Prominent speckled grey-brown.

Light Fingers silently opened the door and the Moth Club slipped into Inchfawn’s cell.

As they entered, someone stirred. It was Smudge. She caught sight of the masked intruders in the moonlight and shoved the edge of her sheet to her mouth.

For a moment, Amy – Kentish Glory – fought panic. She didn’t know which of the three sleeping Thirds was their quarry. Then she saw two pairs of spectacles neatly folded on a small table by one of the cots.

The Moth Club laid hands on Inchfawn.

Amy pressed a face flannel into the girl’s mouth. Inchfawn was awake, but too terrified to struggle.

Smudge mumbled a quarter-hearted protest. Frecks raised a finger to her mask-covered mouth. Smudge buried herself under the bedclothes.

Between them, the Moth Club got Inchfawn cocooned in a sheet and carried out of the cell. The other Thirds didn’t even wake up. Smudge could tell them what had happened. She’d exaggerate, of course – and spread lurid tales of deaths-head monsters spiriting Inchfawn away to glut vampirish thirsts. Frightening rumours about the Moth Club might serve a purpose. Wrong-doers
should
be afraid of them.

They carried their muffled burden up the backstairs. Having hold of Inchfawn’s head-and-shoulders end, Frecks bumped the bundled-up bonce against walls and doors a little more than was strictly necessary. A door which should have been locked wasn’t. Through this, they reached the flat roof. The cloud had cleared off for once. A full moon bathed Old House in pale light. Perfect for nocturnal lepidoptera. Chimney stacks threw stark, deep shadows.

The scene had been prepared. Light Fingers’ rocking chair was tipped against the low guardrail, with ropes prepared for the accused’s neck and ankles. Inchfawn was unrolled from her sheet and tied to the chair. Her hands were bound behind the chair, and the gag taken from her mouth.

A kick set her rocking.

‘You will not scream,
wretch
,’ said Frecks, putting on a deeper, more ominous voice in her guise as Willow Ermine. With wind whining in the chimneys and waves crashing hundreds of feet below, it was deuced eerie. Amy’s hackles rose.

Inchfawn opened her mouth, but swallowed a cry. Without any of her glasses, she looked like a different girl.

‘Lydia Inchfawn, Dorm Three Desdemona, you are accused of treason against your House Sisters,’ declared Amy, finding her own hollow voice for Kentish Glory. ‘It is proven that you did collaborate with the Hooded Conspirators who abducted your House Sister, Princess Kali Chattopadhyay. Furthermore, you did perjure yourself before Headmistress…’

‘Who is that?’ asked Inchfawn.

‘Silence,
weasel
,’ boomed Frecks. ‘You will hear the charges.’

‘…you did perjure yourself before Headmistress, to hinder attempts to pursue the Conspiracy and rescue Princess Kali. These things are known. Now, sentence must be passed… and
executed
.’

This was the trickiest part of the plan. And it depended on Amy. Even if Inchfawn guessed who was behind the mask of Kentish Glory, there was a thing she did not know about Amy Thomsett.

She could float and she could reach out with her mind and make others float.

Since making a poor start with Headmistress’s pen, she had been practising and was more confident.

‘Ha ha, very amusing,’ said Inchfawn unconvincingly. ‘Now, if you’ll untie me, we can all get back to bed… and nothing more will be said, all right? No need to trouble Headmistress – or the whips! – with this raggishness.’

Frecks and Light Fingers hefted up the chair, and set it on the guardrail, holding it steady.

Inchfawn squeaked.

The accused was tilted backwards, over the edge.

A grassy strip separated the outer wall of Old House and the cliff edge. Depending on the wind, a person falling from the roof might bounce on that ledge or miss it entirely. Whichever, they would plunge to the shingles. It was remotely possible they’d be impaled on the flagpole which still stuck up from the broken-off tower.

Frecks and Light Fingers struggled with the weight. Light Fingers had only lent her chair to the Moth Club on the condition it be returned safely. It was a prized possession, one of the few things she had brought with her to School. It had accompanied her to the dressing rooms of all the great theatres of the kingdom. Amy felt a responsibility for the furniture.

She reached out with her mind, feeling the shape and weight of the chair and its prisoner, then took a firm hold on the lump they made together. The chair juddered a little, as if trying to free itself from the other girls’ grips. Now Amy made it
lighter
and herself
heavier
. Anchored to the roof by her increased weight, soles sinking a little into soft tar, she held the chair as if invisible strings ran from her eyes to its points of balance.

Amy raised her arms – her wing-like cloak spread out – and took all the weight on herself.

Frecks and Light Fingers let go of Inchfawn.

The chair wobbled, but did not topple.

Amy let out the invisible strings and the chair tipped backwards.

‘No,’ screeched Inchfawn, fat tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘It wasn’t my fault, you beasts! They said no one would be hurt! I was made to do it! It was… a whip, I tell you. A whip!’

Just as Frecks had theorised, the Hooded Conspiracy ran through School.

The chair was floating now, like a large balloon. Amy didn’t think Inchfawn even noticed. If she looked down, she would see dark sea and the white froth of breaking waves. That would be enough to stop most people’s hearts.

Amy began to reel the blubbing culprit in.

‘What have we here?’ drawled a voice from behind them. ‘Such a shocking spectacle,’ it continued, from another direction. ‘I should say this was unmistakably a Major,’ from one of the chimneys. ‘What do you think, Head Girl?’

It was Crowninshield, throwing her voice about. All the Murdering Heathens were here, in grey nighties and dressing gowns. They carried hockey sticks or cricket bats. Henry Buller had one of each, hefted on her shoulders like the crossed swords of a barbarian gladiator. Crowninshield II was with them, a cadet Witch, drooling at the sight of a trussed Third.

‘I fear very much so, Prefect Crowninshield,’ said Gryce. ‘
C’est tres mechant… tres mechant
indeed.’

The surprise jarred Amy’s concentration. Suddenly, she wasn’t
heavy
. The chair was let go, over the edge.

Inchfawn wasn’t the only one who screamed.

B
EFORE SNATCHING
I
NCHFAWN
from her cot, the Moth Club had prepared the roof. In case of eventualities like this, a stout cord was tied between guardrail and chair-back. The prisoner dropped barely five feet before the rope cracked taut like a hangman’s neck-breaking noose. Knots tied to QMWAACC standards held. The chair stayed as securely tethered to the rail as Inchfawn was to it. She might not be exactly comfortable but was in no real danger.

Still, her nasty tumble was a useful distraction.

Amy reached out with her mind and tried to float Henry Buller. The Sixth was hefty. Her flat feet were planted firmly.

‘I say, g-g-g-girls,’ stuttered Buller. ‘I’ve come over queerly…’

Buller’s waist-length braids rose as if on stiff wires and bobbed like charmed snakes. Her crossed bats lifted from her shoulders, seemingly of their own accord. Her eyes almost popped – which wasn’t Amy’s doing, just a natural reaction.

Dora Paule hissed. An Unusual herself, she recognised another.

‘I d-d-don’t like this,’ said Buller, her croak close to cracking. ‘S-s-s-Sid, m-m-make it s-s-s-stop!’

The bats were tugged out of Buller’s hands. Amy made them dance in the air like dangerous puppets. She let go and the bats clattered, thumping Buller’s shoulders as they fell.

Inchfawn, out of sight, was still making a fuss.

‘Cut out the yelpage, stoat,’ said Frecks. ‘Dangle with some dignity. For the House’s sake, if not your own.’

Seemingly unperturbed, Gryce signalled her Murdering Heathens to spread out, cutting off the Moth Club’s avenues of escape. Buller was
hors de combat
, but the Head Girl had other minions. The Crowninshield sisters took flank positions, chins down as if expecting a charge, evil mismatched eyes peeping up through long fringes. Their identical smiles of unhealthy excitement were all the scarier in moonlight. Paule seemed, as usual, distracted – but was stationed between the Moth Club and the access door to the backstairs.

‘How gaudy you look,’ commented Gryce. ‘I note a dozen Minor Infractions of the dress code. Or has there been some
minuit masquerade
to which, by an oversight, we were not invited? In any case,
mes enfants
, the party is
fini
.’

This was worse than facing the Hooded Conspiracy proper. Grown men might shoot at you, but couldn’t dish out extra punishments for having the temerity to fight back. If the Moth Club survived and were unmasked, they would be cleaning the Heel with their tongues and have burning bamboo shoved under their fingernails in the Whips’ Hut for the rest of their lives at Drearcliff.

‘
Mes filles
,’ said Gryce, ‘let us see which spotty faces cower behind those ridiculous bug disguises…’

The Crowninshield sisters stepped forward. They had rounders bats. Frecks had taught Amy ‘only bounders play rounders’, a game for twits who had not the patience and poetic soul for cricket. Buller was now superstitiously afraid of her own weapons, but her ham-sized fists were clenched.