Authors: Sally Quilford
Chapter
Twelve
“It’s impossible,” said Philly, sweeping the broken glass
into a dustpan. She had quickly explained to Mrs. Cunningham what had really
happened on the previous night in the attic. “Climbing down there would be deadly.
Especially in the snow.”
As well as the broken glass, a row of dirty footprints
stained the carpet near to the window.
“I thought I heard glass breaking in the night,” said Meg.
“I suppose I assumed someone had dropped a tooth mug.”
“I heard it too,” said Philly. “So did Mr. and Mrs. Bennett.
Whoever it was must have climbed down, then broken the window here to open the
latch. But the attic window is at the back of the house. They’d have had to go
up over the roof first. It’s a wonder they didn’t kill themselves.”
“The only other explanation would be ice falling from the
roof and blowing into the window,” said Mrs. Cunningham. “However, that doesn’t
explain the footprints, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t.” Philly put the dustpan on the bedside
table for a moment and rubbed her forehead. A headache began to form
behind her eyes, and she longed again for an empty house and the solitude of
her own bedroom. “I still don’t understand how whoever it was managed to hide
from Matt and Puck. Unless they were in one of the trunks.”
“That seems the most plausible explanation,” said Mrs.
Cunningham. “Who do you suspect?”
Philly and Meg exchanged glances. “Well … it doesn’t matter
because we were wrong,” said Philly. “He was downstairs all along.”
“And who is this mysterious he?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.
“Come along, dear, narrow it down for me a little.”
Philly went over and shut the door, in case of
eavesdroppers. Then she went over to sit on the bed with Meg and Mrs.
Cunningham. “A few weeks ago, I overheard Matt telling someone on the phone
that he wanted to get into the attic. It seemed imperative.”
“Matt?” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Matt Cassell. But Philly, I
thought you and he were … well, involved, as the young call it nowadays.”
“I don’t know what we are,” she replied, sadly. “I wanted to
trust him but it’s so hard, knowing what I know. We were going to set a trap
for him, you see. That’s how I came to lose the key to the attic in the first
place. Normally it’s with all the other keys.”
“But he seems such a nice, genuine young man and you make a
lovely couple.”
At that, a tear rolled down Philly’s cheek. “Oh don’t,
love,” said Meg, putting her arm around her friend. “I know you’re hurt, but if
he’s conning you, he’s not worth it.”
“Yes, but even you and Puck say he seems straight up,” said
Philly. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“I tend to follow my heart in these situations,” said Mrs.
Cunningham, patting Philly on the shoulder. “What does your heart tell you?”
“I don’t know. It seems to change its mind rather a lot. One
moment I want to trust him, because he’s so lovely to me, and to everyone else,
then I remember what I overheard and I’m not sure about him anymore. I can’t
decide if I’m dancing on air or wading through treacle half the time. I do know
he wants to get into the attic, and it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve
played that phone conversation back in my head, it still comes out the same.”