Spying on Miss Muller (15 page)

Ada slitted her eyes. “Poor nothing. She's doing penance. Old-time monks and friars used to do that to repent of their sins, except they used whips and called it flagellation. I think it's Catholic.”

“Still,” I whispered, shivering too. I was remembering the way Miss Müller had said, “I can't help being half German.” But she was. And it was her friends, her father's friends, who'd taken my Bryan prisoner. I hardened my heart. “We'd better be in our cubies when she comes back,” I said.

Ada lifted one foot and hopped to examine it. “We've probably got hundreds of verrucas.”

“I don't think Miss Müller will go spy walking tonight,” Lizzie Mag said, and I shook my head. “I think she's had enough for anyone.”

We whispered our good nights.

In about ten minutes I heard Miss Müller come back from the bathroom. Her door closed. Her lamp went off. Above our heads, up by the high ceiling where the darkness slept, the smell still hung, faint and putrid. I wondered what Miss Müller had done with the blue suit. She'd probably rolled it up to take to the cleaners.

Miss Müller was hiccuping softly, or maybe crying, little soft, stifled sobs. I put the edge of the sheet between my teeth and tried humming inside my head so I wouldn't hear. Wasn't it great the way the girls had all hummed for me in study hall tonight? I still had my two hundred lines to finish. I'd have to do them tomorrow in my free period.

Miss Müller was still crying. The night I'd cried about my daddy, she'd come into my cubie and stroked my hair and talked. Was anyone else awake listening to those little stifled sounds? I couldn't stand it. My crystal set was in my emergency case under my bed. I got up and found it, remembering that I hadn't repacked the case for another raid, or an inspection. They'd get me. Oh well, I didn't care.

I spread the crystal set out on my quilt, using my flashlight to sort out the wires. Ada's brother had sold the set to me for a pound. The boys made them in woodworking class. Mine was a real dud, but it was better than nothing. I put the earplug in my ear and moved the diode to bring in the stations. Snatches of this and that came through, and then I heard Lord Haw Haw's voice, plummy, the way it always was, fake British. He was actually Irish with an English accent, and he broadcast for the Germans, the traitor.

“Good people of London, it is sad to think of what you must endure night after night,” Lord Haw Haw said. His voice dropped, became oh so sweet and kind. “And dear citizens of Belfast, you've had a taste of our Luftwaffe's power. Sleep well, for tonight you shall have a respite. But we'll be back. Wait for us.”

I moved the diode quickly, partly because my heart was hammering with fear and anger and partly because it was unpatriotic to listen to Haw Haw. He spouted only German lies and propaganda. It was all right if you laughed and talked back to him, as my father did sometimes, but I didn't feel up to laughing or talking back tonight.

Now I had Joe Loss and his band playing “In the Mood.” It came at me in little jumps and starts, with somebody's voice talking Gaelic through it and over it. I couldn't tune it in. I'd wasted a whole pound on this worthless contraption.

Was Miss Müller still crying? I took out the earplug and heard the tiniest squeak. What was that? I sat up in bed, moved the crystal set carefully out of my way. Miss Müller's door. It couldn't be. She was going out. I held my breath.

Those were her footsteps, soft and almost silent as they whispered their way up the dorm. My mind fumbled around. We'd thought she wouldn't go tonight. I'd have to waken everyone. I'd have to wait till it was safe. I listened intently. No sound now. She'd gone. She was out of the dorm.

I grabbed my dressing gown and slippers, got my flashlight, went fast into Lizard's room, shone the light smack in her face.

“Quick! Quick! Miss Müller's spy walking after all.”

I ran to Ada's room, pulling on my dressing gown as I went, and shook her shoulder. She was awake before I shook twice. I rushed into Maureen's cubie.

With Maureen it took a minute. It took longer. It took Ada's help. It took too long. We dragged her out of bed, Lizard carrying Maureen's flashlight with her own, Ada stuffing Mo into her dressing gown. Maureen had big pink rollers in her hair, the ones Ada said made her curls look like the city sewer pipes when she took them out.

“Give me a second,” Maureen kept mumbling. “Hey, let me wake up, will you?”

“We don't have time. Get awake now,” Ada said.

We all had our flashlights switched on. There was no need to be careful—Miss Müller wasn't even there. But when we came to Long Parlor I whispered, “Put them out and be quiet. We don't want to waken Greta.”

“Greta's gone,” Lizard said.

Her blanket lay on the floor. The black vinyl sofa was empty. Oh no.

We went single file along the corridor holding on to one another's dressing-gown cords. I was in the lead, then Lizard, then Mo, then Ada, pushing Maureen from behind. Our shadows wall walked with us.

Through the main hallway we went, the big shieldshaped front door with its studding of nail heads close-bolted against the night. Then under the portraits, their waxy faces coming and going as our flashlight beams slid across them. Past Old Rose's sitting room. She'd be comfortably asleep in her bedroom in back, snug under her fat eiderdown, sure that all her Alveara girls and mistresses, too, were safe and sound asleep.

Up the red-carpeted staircase, our hands following the wide bannister.

“Flashlights off,” I whispered at the top.

We stood, listening. Not a sound. Not a sign of Miss Müller or Greta. But they'd gotten a head start on us.

We moved in silence past the closed san door, past the dispensary and Nursie's bedroom. Here was the archway to the roof stairs.

We stopped and Maureen gave a little whimper. “We can't go up there in the dark.” Her hands clutched at me. “We have to have our flashlights on or we'll break our necks.”

“Shield the beams,” I said.

“What if we meet Marjorie?” Maureen begged.

“We won't,” Ada said. “Marjorie's dead.”

I had this awful urge now to hurry. Whatever Miss Müller was doing, we had to stop her. And if Greta was there, we had to stop her from stopping Miss Müller in her own way.

My flashlight fluttered ahead of me on the cold gray steps that led into darkness. The other three round lights jumped the steps behind me. Our slippers sounded soft as leaves falling from an oak tree. The coffin room. Yes, Marjorie was dead, but still we climbed faster as we passed it.

Cold air drifted down now that we were close to the roof. What was our plan? We didn't have one. Greta had asked that, too. “Will you kill her?” No, no, not kill. I had an idea. When we found Miss Müller, three of us would hold her, the other would run down and ring Nursie's bell. Ring it and ring it and hammer on her door. Yes, that would work. That would be good. Nursie would be raging at first, but then she'd understand. Nursie was tough.

Here was the step to the roof. I turned to face the others. “Flashlights off,” I whispered, clicking off mine. “Be careful.”

I stepped out onto the roof.

Light rain misted down; the sky was clotted with clouds. If there was a moon, it was behind the tower. What time was it anyway? I couldn't see the blacked-out face of the clock. Was it midnight yet? It was so dark up there without even a glow from the faraway sky. I remembered the buckets of sand and water. Behind me somebody tripped coming over the step. It was Ada. I heard her mutter, “Criminy!”

We were all out, huddling in wet misery, trying to see through the blackness.

When the voice spoke, Maureen gave a high little shriek.

“It's Greta,” the voice said. “Müller's not here.” A flashlight came on. Behind it I saw the shape of Greta, her long dark hair, the darker pools of her eyes.

“Douse that light, or cover it up,” I told her quickly. “We're outside. There could be planes.”

She cupped the light. The red glowed through her fingers, like skeleton bones. That hand held something else. The nail file, silvery red, too, and deadly.

“What do you mean she's not here?” Ada whispered. “You followed her, didn't you? This is where she's supposed to always come.”

“I followed her. She came.”

“You didn't push her over?” Maureen stepped back until she was behind Ada.

“She wasn't here to push,” Greta said. “Follow me and I'll show you something.”

We followed. Greta stopped at the edge of the roof and pointed down.

“This is how she gets away to do whatever she's doing,” she said.

We peered into the darkness below. Greta cupped her flashlight and shone its light down. The metal fire escape hugged the ivy-covered walls and marched all the way to the gravel driveway at the bottom.

“Easy to use,” Greta said in disgust.

It would be easy. The fire escape wasn't just an iron ladder but a gridlike staircase with turns and platforms at each level.

“She could be anywhere,” Greta said, waving an arm. “In one of the other buildings, in the shrubbery, in Whitla Hall... anywhere. Alveara is locked up tight at night, but this is always open. This is her way to freedom.”

We clustered together, staring down at the shadowed grounds and beyond them to the street. A trolley bus, its windows darkened, its guide rails throwing off blue sparks, glided noisily past the Alveara gates.

“Should we go down ourselves and try to find her?” I asked.

“Where would we start to look?” Greta asked.

Maureen gave a couple of little hops. “I vote we go inside.” She touched her sponge rollers. “These things soak up the wet. I'll be a frizzy lizzie all day tomorrow.”

“Honestly, Maureen,” Ada said. “You haven't the sense God gave a muskrat.”

“Miss Müller has to come up the way she went down,” I said. “We'll wait.”

“We could wait at the bottom of the stairs and nab her when she steps out,” Lizard suggested.

Ada pushed at air with her free hand. “If she doesn't want to tell us where she's been, we'll scare it out of her.”

“Great idea.” Greta was turned away from me, the nail file a dull gleam in the hand that hung by her side. I pounced, grabbed, and had it.

“Hey!” she said.

“You won't be needing this,” I said, and slipped it into my pocket.

“You Irish girls do not understand about the enemy,” Greta said.

“Oh, yeah?” Maureen asked. “So why are we here? Do you think you're the only one who loves her country and who hates the Germans? We weren't coming up here to have a picnic with Miss Müller, you know.”

“Relax, Mo,” I said. “Just relax.”

We hurried back down the stairs, warning each other not to fall, not to step on heels. Lizzie Mag was behind me holding my dressing-gown cord.

“Jess.” There was something odd in her voice. The cord jerked as she stopped. I stopped too.

“What?”

“Look.” Her voice was as pale as her face in the white light that shone up from her flashlight. She turned its beam on the coffin-room door.

You had to really look before you saw it. The heavy chain was still around the knob, but the padlock that hung from it gaped open.

“Was it like this when we came up?” I whispered. Something strange was happening to my legs; a chill shiver cold as a cockroach ran up and down my skin. We didn't know. We hadn't looked on the way up. “Heaven preserve us, Marjorie's out,” Maureen whispered. We pressed ourselves against the wall.

Greta pushed in front of Lizard so carelessly that I said, “Watch out,” and grabbed at Lizard's arm as she toppled on the step, then righted herself.

“The German is in the coffin room,” Greta said. She reached across me and flung open the door.

T
HE COFFIN-ROOM DOOR
was open, the inside dark as a tomb except where our flashlights probed. Not one of us had ever seen inside before. Maybe we'd expected a trestle with a coffin on it, Marjorie lying in state the way the girl vampire lay in
Dracula.
What we saw was Miss Müller standing in her black dressing gown, and beside her, her hand in his, Mr. Bolton.

We stared, stunned to silence. One wavering flashlight picked out the blue in his plaid dressing gown, shone on his glasses and round, pale face. Another showed a bunk bed, just like the ones in our dorm, neatly made up, the white sheet smooth across the blanket. There was a small table with a lamp, and two straight-backed chairs.

“Miss Müller?” Lizzie Mag whispered.

Miss Müller moved quietly to the table and switched on the lamp. It had a pink shade. The table was an old treadle sewing machine with the top closed. There were things scattered on it: a blue jar with the lid off, a candle in an old-fashioned holder, two flashlights, and a little glass bottle that held a single purple rhododendron.

“We should have made our escape while you were on the roof,” Miss Müller said. Her voice had no life in it. “John thought you would come down very quickly and you'd see us.”

John was Mr. Bolton. J. P. Bolton, B.A., M.A., my Latin teacher. Sweet, ordinary Mr. Bolton who'd shielded Miss Müller from the hissing in the dining room, who'd walked with her from assembly.

“We decided that going up to the roof was some sort of dare,” he said. “Was it?”

“No. We were following Miss Müller.”

“Oh.” He sounded puzzled.

Miss Müller spoke away from Mr. Bolton, away from us. “I'm sorry that I got you into this, John. I wasn't worth it.”

Now I could see the greasy marks high on the shoulders of her dressing gown. She'd put ointment on the sore places where the brush had scrubbed, or maybe he'd smoothed the cream on for her.

“Don't be sorry... please don't be sorry. You are worth the world,” he said.