The hotel was dark and quiet. Murmuring voices echoed from somewhere below. Stella felt uneasy. She crept along to the main staircase, leaned over cautiously and looked down. Mr Blenkinsop was at his desk, talking to one of the night footmen in a low voice. He pointed towards the front door, and the footman walked over to it and checked the lock.

Stella ducked behind the banister and retreated to the back staircase. She tiptoed down two flights of stairs and then along the shadowy second floor passageway towards Mr Filbert’s room.

Ahead, soft footsteps approached. Stella froze, her heart thumping. A mildewy-looking stuffed fox stood on a small table. She dropped to her hands and knees, crawled underneath and crouched in the shadow, clutching the Atlas and holding her breath as the footsteps came closer.

It was one of the hotel porters. As still as a stone, Stella watched his boots march past. She waited until she could not hear his footsteps any longer, then crawled out from under the table and continued along to Mr Filbert’s room. The door was unlocked. She opened it, slipped inside and closed it quietly behind her. The curtains were not drawn and the dim light from the window was sufficient for her to see that the room was empty. The bed was stripped. There was nothing inside the wardrobe but curling shelf paper.

Stella stood in the deserted room and considered. Where could Mr Filbert’s luggage be? Perhaps the police had taken his things away? Or perhaps they had been locked in a storeroom somewhere?

She glanced at the Atlas, remembering she had found it, months ago, on the rubbish heap behind the hotel, beyond the kitchen garden. Perhaps when the maids had cleaned out Mr Filbert’s room they had thrown some of his things there.

Stella opened the door, crept along the passageway to the stairs and down to the ground floor. She pushed open the baize door at the end of the passageway, slipped silently through and tiptoed along to the kitchen. Her slippers made no sound on the tiled floor. The kitchen was huge and cavernous and dark. Rows of enormous, gleaming pots and pans dangled in the shadows overhead. Steam pipes hissed and clanked. The clock ticked and a coal fire in one of the big ovens sputtered and popped.

Something touched her leg. She jumped. Two shining eyes looked up at her from the darkness. It was a kitchen cat. Stella stroked the cat’s arched back. ‘Good evening, cat,’ she whispered. The cat purred and butted its head against her leg.

She found candles and matches on a table. She lit a candle, set it in a brass holder and tiptoed along the passageway, past the sculleries, to the garden door. The cat padded beside her. The door was bolted at the top and the bottom. The top bolt moved easily, but the lower one was stiff. Stella put down the candle and the Atlas and used both hands. The bolt moved with a shrill squeak and she froze, listening, fearing the noise had woken someone. But nothing stirred.

She picked up the candle and the Atlas and opened the door. The night outside was cold and dark and drizzling. On one side loomed the laundry building and on the other, the high wall of the kitchen garden.

Stella hesitated. The night was somehow larger and darker than she had imagined it would be. Perhaps she should go back to bed. For a moment, she thought she would. But it was unlikely she would have a chance to slip away during the daytime, with the Aunts so watchful and angry. And tomorrow, the rubbish might be burned. Now was the only time.

She remembered poor Mr Filbert, lying dead in the conservatory. She took a deep breath, hugged the Atlas to her chest, gripped the candleholder firmly and stepped out into the rain and the darkness.

The cat mewed in an interested manner and followed her out, along the path and through the gate in the garden wall.

The kitchen garden was full of dark shapes, winter plants muffled with straw and sacking. Beside the path was a row of tall Brussels sprouts, like hunched old men, shrouded with hessian. Stella crept past them, and past dripping rows of leeks and rhubarb and cabbages. She ducked under a dangling dead flower head, the size of a fist.

Raindrops pattered on wet leaves. A shuffling sound came from somewhere nearby. She froze again and peered into the darkness, but could see nothing beyond the flickering circle of candlelight.

‘Probably a fox,’ she whispered to the cat. She quickened her pace. At the far end of the kitchen garden, behind a row of greenhouses, the rubbish heap was a piled dark shape, smelling strongly of wet horses and old vegetables. The candlelight revealed mounds of mouldy straw, rags, a clump of rotting cabbage leaves, a broken wicker basket and —

Stella gasped.

For a terrifying second, she thought a body lay sprawled on top of the rubbish heap. She held the candle higher, her trembling hand making the flame flicker. It was the scarecrow she had seen lying in the entrance hall. She took two shaking steps closer. It was broken and coming to pieces. It lay on its back, its arms outflung and its neck arched, its face turned towards her. A trail of twigs and leaves showed where it had been dragged and flung onto the heap. For a moment, she thought she saw the face move, the head lifting and turning. But it was only the candle’s shifting light glistening on the twisted, wet sticks.

She took a deep breath and crouched down, holding the candle close to the figure’s face. She could still make out the features, the cheekbones, nose and chin. She remembered Mr Filbert. His pale eyes and the way his skin seemed to stretch tightly across the bones of his face. Was this scarecrow poor Mr Filbert? How could that be possible?

One of the scarecrow’s hands was stretched towards her, the fingers curled. Stella reached out, her heart thudding. As she touched it, the hand seemed to open, the twigs shifting and untwisting. She gasped and almost dropped the candle.

A loose twig lay in the scarecrow’s palm. She picked it up and held it in the flickering candlelight. It was only a few inches long, and at the tip were several tiny, unfurling leaves.

Shuffling footsteps made her stiffen, her heart in her throat. She pushed the little twig under the knot of the ribbon that tied the Atlas together and stood up.

Someone coughed.

Not a fox.

Perhaps one of the servants had woken and seen her candle.

She blew it out. The darkness closed in around her. She froze and listened. She could hear nothing but rain.

She had to force herself to move. Beyond the corner of the greenhouse, the wet brick path gleamed faintly. She took a deep breath and set off back across the garden, walking as quickly as she could.

Nearby, more footsteps. Stella turned and strained her eyes against the darkness and the steady drizzle. She could see nothing.

She continued across the garden, half-running now. She was nearly there.

Suddenly, the footsteps were close behind. She spun around and opened her mouth to scream. The beam from a dark lantern shone in her face, dazzling her.

A voice said, ‘It’s her. It’s the nipper.’ A thick blanket was dropped over her head and rough hands snatched her off her feet. She twisted and struggled and tried to cry out.

The cat squawled.

A man cursed.

Stella again tried to shout, but her mouth was full of hairy, horse-smelling blanket and she could not breathe. She felt dizzy and then everything seemed to spin around and disappear.