Strange Star (2 page)

‘Whatever is it, child?’ she gasped.

Agatha steadied herself against the table, the colour drained from her face.

‘I’m not going up there again tonight, so don’t ask me.’ Her voice was shaking: she didn’t sound like Agatha at all.

‘What’s happened?’ Felix asked, a delicious, icy feeling worming down his spine.

‘Mr Shelley’s just told the most awful tale …’ Agatha started to sob, ‘… about a dead person’s head being brought back to life.’

So the stories had started. And this was just the sort of tale Felix had hoped to hear. He squirmed in horrified delight.

‘They want more port wine, but I can’t go back up there!’ Agatha cried.

Frau Moritz put her arms around her daughter. Over Agatha’s head, she caught Felix’s eye.

‘You want
me
to go up?’ he said, in surprise.

‘Well
she
can’t go. Look at the lather she’s in.’

So he put down his cleaning rag and his master’s shoes. And finding the port, he hurried from the kitchen before Frau Moritz changed her mind.

Upstairs, the parlour was barely recognisable. The room he’d earlier made so comfortable was now as dark as a dungeon. Felix wasn’t scared, not like Agatha had been. But he could, as he glanced about him, see her point. The only light came from the fire itself. Shadows stretched up to the ceiling and along the walls. At the windows the shutters remained open, making the huge floor-to-ceiling casements gape like the mouths of caves. It wasn’t the slightest bit welcoming. Yet it was the perfect setting for telling ghost stories.

The guests formed an untidy half-circle around the fire. Mrs Shelley sat on a floor cushion, her feet tucked beneath her. Mr Shelley, white-faced and uneasy, occupied a chair. Miss Clairmont lay sprawled on the red chaise longue, and next to her, his foot propped on a stool, sat Dr Polidori. Agatha said the doctor was sweet on Mrs Shelley and had hurt his ankle jumping from a
window to impress her. It was the sort of thing people seemed to do for the Shelleys.

Silently, Felix moved between the guests with the port. Neither Dr Polidori nor Miss Clairmont looked up as he refilled their glasses. He was glad they didn’t notice how his hand shook.

‘Do you have a story for us, Mary?’ Dr Polidori asked, addressing Mrs Shelley over Felix’s shoulder.

‘No, sadly,’ she said. ‘I’m too exhausted tonight even to think.’

Even so, she sat very upright, very tense. If this was exhaustion, then it seemed to be the kind that quivered like catgut pulled tight.

‘It’s Clara –
again
,’ said Miss Clairmont, by way of explanation. ‘That girl is an annoying little wretch. Why Mary and Percy had to adopt her I’ve no idea. She does nothing but tell lies, then gets into a sulk when no one believes her. She’s impossible!’

Felix recalled the girl with white-blonde hair he’d seen at the window that morning. So her name was Clara. He didn’t think she’d looked sulky; there had been something about her that seemed almost sad.

‘I’m sure she’ll settle eventually,’ Mrs Shelley said, though she didn’t sound convinced. ‘She’s tired. It’s been a long journey for her – for us all. I left
instructions with the maid to put her to bed early tonight.’

‘Ha! That’ll stir up a tantrum,’ said Miss Clairmont.

Mrs Shelley glared. ‘When I want your advice on child-rearing, Claire, do remind me to ask.’

‘Don’t be cruel, Mary dear,’ said Mr Shelley, as Miss Clairmont winced at the jibe.

Mrs Shelley turned back to Dr Polidori. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, in softer tones. ‘I
have
had a trying day, but it’s not my daughter’s fault. And now my brain feels quite empty of ideas.’

Behind those silver-green eyes of hers, Felix felt certain there was nothing
but
ideas. Yet the guests were restless for another ghost story. And so Lord Byron rose from his seat and stood before the fire, elbow resting on the mantel. He cleared his throat dramatically; he did so enjoy
addressing
people.

Felix retreated to the back of the room, eager for the entertainment to resume.

‘Who will be our next storyteller? Who will dare to freeze our blood?’ His lordship’s gaze travelled the group, coming to rest on Mrs Shelley. ‘Mary, do you really have no story for us?’

Mrs Shelley held up her hands in defeat.

‘Please, don’t ask me again. I cannot think of a
single ghostly thing,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take my turn?’

Yes, do!
Felix pleaded silently, for Lord Byron was brilliant at telling stories. He did voices and actions to enthrall his audience. It was bound to be too good to miss.

‘Very well.’ Lord Byron sighed, as if this was all a huge inconvenience and he’d rather be left alone to sip port. But there was a playful glint in his eye – Felix saw it. His master was enjoying himself.

Moving away from the fireside, Lord Byron took a seat near the windows. Lightning darted across his face, making his skin look a deathly, bluish white.
Almost corpse-like,
Felix thought, and felt a churning sensation in his stomach. By the fire the rest of the group had gone very still.

The spell was cast.

‘My tale is of a girl named Christabel who, one dark and stormy night, takes a stranger into her home,’ Lord Byron said. ‘That stranger, my dears, is not all she seems.’

So Lord Byron began his story, his voice rising and falling like the sea. The way he paused, eyes wide with fear, drew Felix in till he’d quite forgotten himself.

‘… Christabel carried the stranger inside, unlocking
the huge front gate and staggering across the courtyard. The woman in her arms was so bloodless and weak, she began to wonder if what she’d brought in from the forest was, in fact, a dead …’

Someone cried out.

Felix jumped in alarm. The guests did too, gasping then laughing when they realised it was only Miss Clairmont.

‘Don’t mock me!’ she cried. ‘I know this tale won’t end well, I sense it in my bones.’

So did Felix. His heart was already galloping. But taking a deep breath, he told himself not to be foolish. The story wasn’t
that
frightening. Yet.

‘… As they passed the family dog asleep in its kennel, the animal suddenly awoke. It leapt to its feet, teeth bared white in the moonlight. Christabel was horrified. This dog was known to be as soft as butter. She’d never before heard it so much as growl. Now, though, it snarled at the sleeping form in her arms. Terrified, Christabel hurried indoors.

‘In the safety of the house …’

A great crash of thunder made his master stop. Felix glanced nervously at the rest of the group. The firelight made their faces look shadowy and hollowed-out. Mr Shelley was struggling to keep his knees still. Sat at
his feet, Mrs Shelley held her chin in cupped hands. Next to her, Miss Clairmont’s eyes were very large and very dark. And in the chair opposite, Dr Polidori’s expression had frozen like a mask. Their fear hung heavy in the air, and it was catching. Felix felt his pulse quicken again.

The thunder done, his master took a sip of water, ready to resume. But as he uttered the first word, the drawing-room door opened and a cap-topped head poked around it. Lord Byron’s arms fell heavily into his lap.

‘What on earth is it, Frau Moritz?’ he said, his irritation clear.

Felix groaned inwardly. She’d come looking for him, hadn’t she? There was still work to be finished in the kitchens; he’d been up here far too long.

Lord Byron stared at her. ‘Well? Out with it!’

Frau Moritz shuffled into the room, wringing her hands. ‘My Agatha’s taken a poorly turn. I wondered if the doctor,’ she nodded at Dr Polidori, ‘could come and tell me what to do for her.’

She was, Felix realised, not cross but
upset
. It alarmed him.

But Lord Byron was looking thoroughly fed up. It was clear he wasn’t concerned for Agatha or Frau Moritz; he wanted only to get on with his story.

He nodded to Felix. ‘Take him, would you?’

Though badly wanting to stay and hear Christabel’s fate, Felix bowed his head. ‘Very good, my lord.’

Down in the kitchen they found Agatha grey-faced and shivering by the stove. An hour ago, Felix would have got some small satisfaction from the sight of her. Now it unsettled him. Agatha was an irritating, lazy toad of a girl but she didn’t deserve to be scared witless.

‘Go back upstairs,’ Frau Moritz said to him, once he’d settled Dr Polidori in a nearby chair. ‘Someone still needs to attend the guests.’

Felix was glad to be gone. He didn’t like it when people got sick. He’d seen too much of it in his life – in his own family – and he didn’t want to think of those memories tonight. As he fumbled his way along the dark hallway, he willed his mind to fill up once more with the Christabel story. Was the stranger a villain? A ghost? Would she kill poor Christabel, who in kindness had given her a bed for the night?

He was too late.

On entering the room, he realised the story was over. Lord Byron, slumped in his chair, looked as lifeless as a doll. His master often fasted for days at a time; today was probably such a day. Going to the table where the
supper still lay, Felix began putting food on a plate for him.

Miss Clairmont screamed.

Not just once – it went on and on. The plate in Felix’s hands trembled violently. He put it down for fear of dropping it and turned to see what was wrong.

‘There! At the glass! I saw it!’ Miss Clairmont cried. She was pointing at the middle window.

‘Saw what?’ asked Mr Shelley.

‘A person. All in white. It pressed its hands against the window!’

Mrs Shelley rolled her eyes. ‘Is this another of your fancies, Claire?’

Felix glanced at the window. There was nothing to see but darkness and rivulets of rain. Miss Clairmont was crying hysterically now, yet no one seemed to believe her. Lord Byron put his head back and closed his eyes. Mr and Mrs Shelley shared a glance.

‘Why won’t you listen?’ Miss Clairmont sobbed.

‘Because you’re overwrought.’ Mrs Shelley put an arm stiffly round her shoulders. ‘Shall we go to bed? I’ve still not thought up a story to tell, and you’ve clearly had quite enough.’

The two young women got to their feet. As they made for the door, a noise stopped them dead.

‘What’s that?’ gasped Miss Clairmont.

‘A tree tapping against the glass, I suspect,’ said Mr Shelley, though he didn’t sound sure.

The noise came again, louder this time. A
thud thud thud.
A pause. Then another
thud thud thud,
though it wasn’t coming from the window.

Felix knew it exactly. It was the sound a fist made when thumped against wood.

Someone was at the front door.

‘We mustn’t answer it!’ Miss Clairmont cried. ‘Whoever’s out there, don’t let them inside!’

Felix looked to Lord Byron, to the Shelleys, hoping someone would tell him what to do. In the story Christabel took a stranger into her home. What became of her in the end? He never got to hear, though he could guess; the group looked terrified.

Thud thud thud.

‘I cannot endure that pounding!’ Lord Byron said, pressing his fingers to his temples. ‘Felix, see who it is.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ He nodded, determined not to appear scared. This was a chance to prove himself worthy. To show he could keep his head in a crisis and serve his master well. Straightening his shoulders, Felix left the room – this time taking a candle with him.

The knocking went on. Yet bizarrely, the closer he got to the door, the fainter it sounded. Just as he
reached for the handle, it stopped completely. Felix hesitated, holding his breath.

Outside, the wind had picked up. There was another flash of lightning. Another thunderclap. Then all fell eerily silent. Felix waited. The knocking didn’t resume. A few moments more and he decided whoever had been out there had seen sense and returned home. He breathed again. There was really no need to open the door.

Then came a single
thud
.

Felix jumped. The sound was against the lower part of the door. Someone – or something – was still out there. Bracing himself, he gripped the handle. It wouldn’t turn. It felt like the stupid thing had been greased. Wiping his damp palm on his breeches, he tried again.

A screaming wind blew the door inward so hard it slammed against the wall. The candle died. Everything outside was dark and dripping. There was definitely no one there.

Then he looked down.

In the hallway behind him, someone must have opened a door because a shaft of light spilled onto the doorstep. At his feet was a person. A body. He gasped out loud.

‘Oh! Oh my …’

Felix’s mind leapt backwards. He was on board ship again, sailing from America to Europe with Mother. Those first few days she’d spent mostly on deck. ‘This is how freedom smells,’ she’d said.

But on the open water the ship was hit by great, grey waves that rose from the sea like monsters. The captain ordered everyone to keep below deck. They stayed crammed into the ship’s hold for days on end, too many people in bunks awash with vomit and urine. The fever spread fast. Six passengers died in just one night; seven, counting Mother. Their bodies were wrapped in sheets and dropped overboard. He arrived in Europe alone.

Felix blinked.

He knew a corpse when he saw one, and this girl couldn’t be long dead: only moments ago she’d been knocking at the door. And the body
was
a girl’s, he saw, though she wasn’t wearing a bonnet and her frock had seen better days. She lay on her side, knees drawn up. Felix dropped beside her, his hand hovering at her shoulder.

Should I move her?
he wondered.
Should I call Lord Byron?

He wanted to handle things properly, like the best
servant of a fine gentleman. And not make a fuss, because there’d already been plenty of that tonight.

Behind in the hallway, someone was approaching. He scrambled to his feet.

‘What is it, Felix?’ It was Mrs Shelley. ‘Is everything all right?’

Stepping aside, he gestured to the girl’s body. They both stared in shocked silence.

‘Let’s bring her inside. We might be able to do something for her,’ Mrs Shelley said, eventually.

‘But she’s dead.’

Mrs Shelley shot him a withering look.

‘Very good,’ he muttered.

As Mrs Shelley put her hands under the girl’s arms, Felix took hold of the feet. Together, on the count of three, they lugged her down the hall, a line of filthy water trailing after them.

Inside the parlour, Mr Shelley, Lord Byron and Miss Clairmont waited in a nervous huddle.

‘Is she dead?’ Miss Clairmont cried, as they carried the girl in.

‘Yes,’ Felix said.

‘We don’t yet know,’ said Mrs Shelley, speaking over him.

They laid the girl down on the hearthrug. Gentle
though they were, the movement made her head loll to the side, revealing a strange mark on her neck. It resembled a birthmark or a visible knot of veins.

‘Poor mite,’ Mr Shelley remarked, seeing it too. ‘What an awful-looking scar.’

It was certainly unlike any scar Felix had ever seen. This one was not the work of a whip or a branding iron – and back in America he’d had experience of both. The thought made him tug at his jacket sleeve to make sure the S-shaped mark on his arm was covered. Then, unsteadily, he got to his feet.

So much for ghost stories.

There’d been no need for tales to freeze the blood. Not when real life had brought death to the front doorstep. As if, thought Felix wearily, he needed reminding that the dearest people, the simplest things could be snatched away in a moment, and only darkness left in their place.

‘Our resident doctor should examine her,’ Lord Byron said. ‘Fetch him from the kitchens, Felix. He must’ve finished with that servant girl by now.’

Felix straightened his shoulders.

‘Very good,’ he said.

On his return to the parlour where a corpse now lay, Dr Polidori barely flinched. He was used to death, Felix supposed, though he didn’t know how anyone could reach a point where the sight of a person dead didn’t make them feel sad or sick or … something, at least.

‘Don’t stand there frowning, boy. Out of my way!’ Dr Polidori said. ‘Now, the rest of you, kindly step back.’

The doctor knelt beside the girl. Taking her skinny wrist between his forefingers, he watched the mantel clock. Everyone else watched him. Felix had never known a minute pass so slowly.

Eventually, Dr Polidori moved aside, rather awkwardly because of his bandaged foot. ‘I cannot feel a pulse,’ he said.

‘What about her scar?’ Mr Shelley asked, gesturing to the girl’s neck. ‘It looks almost familiar, though I don’t know how.’

The mark was now clear to see. It looked dark red and spidery in the firelight. Dr Polidori leant forward to examine it.

‘A disfigurement from birth, most probably,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine it’s the cause of death.’ Which, to Felix’s mind, meant he didn’t know.

‘Oh, right. I see,’ Mr Shelley said, moving back.

With a sudden movement, Mrs Shelley twisted free of her husband’s arms, falling to her knees on the hearthrug. The girl looked more lifeless than ever. Yet tucking up her skirts, Mrs Shelley sat directly behind her, wrapping her arms around the girl’s waist and heaving her into a sitting position.

‘Mary, the girl is dead,’ Mr Shelley said, taking hold of his wife’s shoulders.

Mrs Shelley shrugged him off.

‘I won’t stand back and let her die, not when there’s a chance I can help her, Percy. Don’t you recall what we witnessed in Somerset?’

Mr Shelley flinched as if she’d slapped him. Miss Clairmont, who’d been surprisingly quiet until now, gave a low, dreadful moan.

‘My nerves cannot bear it,’ Lord Byron said, clutching his forehead. It was unclear to whom or what he referred, but the playful glint in his eye had now most definitely gone.

The whole mood of the room had changed. It was like someone had opened a window and let in the cold; Felix felt the chill of it seeping into his bones. He should do something, he decided. Bring more wine. More firewood and candles.

Then Mrs Shelley spoke.

‘You’ll know Percy and I lost our baby girl last year,’ she said, looking at each of them in turn. ‘As I grieved, I dreamed I brought her back to life by rubbing her before a fire.’

‘No, Mary.’ Mr Shelley tried to take her arm. She turned away.

‘At least let me try,’ she said. Her eyes, reflecting the firelight, were full of little, dancing flames. She looked capable of almost anything.

‘It won’t work, Mary,’ Mr Shelley said. ‘You’re not a scientist. And even if you were …’ he trailed off dismally.

Just last night they’d spoken of science as a glorious, brilliant thing. Experiments had been done on executed murderers who somehow – in some way – had been revived, or at least made to twitch. More research was needed, of course, but wasn’t it exciting? Who knew where all this might lead?

And yet a wave of panic came over Felix, like he was speeding downhill in a runaway carriage.

You couldn’t really bring a person back to life.
Could you?

No, he thought, of course you couldn’t.

Mrs Shelley had started rubbing the dead girl’s back. Felix shuddered. There was no pleasure in watching, no terrible thrill, but he looked on with a
gruesome fascination. In another part of the room, Miss Clairmont was crying again. She demanded to be taken back to their villa. Lord Byron and Mr Shelley argued over who would accompany her: it seemed both wanted an excuse to leave.

Between the dead girl’s shoulder blades, Mrs Shelley’s hand kept moving. Felix wanted someone to tell her to stop. Though he didn’t think anyone could or would. And it made him afraid.

He was aware of the parlour door swishing open. Swishing shut. Lord Byron’s voice grew fainter; the others, Felix realised, had gone. His gaze didn’t shift from Mrs Shelley’s hand. Round and round it went. On and on and on.

There was sweat on Mrs Shelley’s forehead. Her rubbing wasn’t gentle – the tendons in her wrist stood out like cords. That poor girl might have been dough beneath her fist.

And yet, despite himself, he began to feel the smallest tingle of hope.

What if it worked? What if it was actually possible to bring a dead person back to life? Felix stared hard at that hand. As if staring alone would do the trick.

Breathe, he urged the dead girl, breathe!