It was two days later when Tilly announced that she was to be taken shopping with Mrs. Meeching. “Y’r aunt’s to be busy baking cakes, so I gets to help Mrs. Meeching buy the groceries,” said Tilly proudly. She sounded as if she were actually going to have her opinion sought in selecting strawberries out of season, the limes and the lettuces, instead of merely going along to serve as a beast of burden, weighted down with Mrs. Meeching’s packages.
“And since I hasn’t the time to dust the parlor”— Tilly was all importance this morning— “you gets to do it today, Emily.” To Tilly, dusting the parlor was clearly an honor not to be bestowed on anyone else except in cases of direst emergency, or as in the present instance, simply if something better came along. She handed Emily a rag and flounced off to prepare herself for her big excursion, leaving Emily alone in the parlor.
Well, not quite alone, because, of course, there were some of the old people in the room as well. From having cleaned their rooms, Emily could now attach names to several of the sad, wrinkled faces. Mr. Bottle and his handkerchief were in the parlor. So was Mr. Popple with the ears so big and thin you could see light through them. Also present was Mrs. Biggs, who still wore spectacles stiff as cat’s whiskers perched on her nose, even though the glass in them had long since been lost—or stolen.
But for all useful purposes, such as conversation or company, Emily was alone. And though Tilly might have numbered dusting the parlor with other treasured gifts from her gracious benefactors, Emily didn’t see it at all in the same light. She did not like being in the parlor on her own and wanted to get the chore done as quickly as possible.
It was so very quiet in the room. So very dim. So very frightening to be stared at by unseeing faces and to be in the presence of two doors, closed like lids over baleful eyes, doors that could spring open at any moment. Except for an occasional honk from Mr. Bottle, who sat hunched in a chair to one side of Mrs. Meeching’s closed door, the parlor remained deadly silent as Emily’s dust rag raced over the tables.
She had gone no more than halfway around the room when suddenly Mrs. Meeching’s door swung open. Emily gasped, her hand frozen in midair, as Mrs. Meeching appeared dressed for shopping in a black coat and hat that made her look strangely like a snake attempting to masquerade as a lady. She hurried silently across the parlor and climbed the stairs toward Mrs. Plumly’s room, but in her hurry, she had left behind an open door! Through it Emily could see a blood-red carpet, heavy, blood-red velvet draperies shrouding the windows, and furniture that gave the impression of being dark, oversized headstones.
Then all at once, the silent parlor was shattered with an explosion of sound. Ker! Ker! Choo! It was Mr. Bottle sneezing. He dove into the pocket of his sweater to retrieve the rag that passed for his handkerchief. And Plop! Along with the handkerchief, a peppermint flew right out of the pocket and fell to the floor. But instead of stopping where it fell, it went rolling. And rolling. And rolling. It did not stop until it reached the dead center of Mrs. Meeching’s carpet where it lay blinking like a knowing, wicked red-and-white eyeball. “Come and get me,” it taunted, “anyone who dares!”
Thoughts, each one more chilling than the one that came before it, darted through Emily’s head. Mr. Bottle clearly had not seen or heard the peppermint fall. She could tell him about it, and no doubt have a Mr. Bottle instantly dead with fright lying on the parlor floor. If Mrs. Meeching saw the peppermint upon her return, she would immediately suspect one of the old people, and the most likely culprit would be Mr. Bottle, since he was nearest the door. There was only one thing to be done, and that was for Emily to go for the peppermint.
Dropping the rag on the nearest table, she flew swiftly to the open door. Then with her breath as solid in her throat as a lump of moldy bread, she tiptoed into the dreaded room. And then she froze. In that deathly silent parlor, any sound could be heard, but most especially the sound of footsteps. Mrs. Meeching, having completed her business with Mrs. Plumly, was on her way back to her room!
There was another door in that room, closed, and two large wardrobes, also with doors closed. But it was already firmly implanted in Emily’s mind that closed doors at Sugar Hill Hall were to be avoided like the plague. Besides, with Mrs. Meeching’s breath practically felt in the room, there was no time to play musical doors. And then she saw the hiding place that offered her one slim hope. Scooping up the peppermint, she slipped behind the blood-red velvet folds of the draperies.
It was, however, a surprisingly noisy, rough Mrs. Meeching that finally entered the room. Clash! Crash! Bang! Emily heard what sounded like logs tumbling into the fireplace. And there was a voice that came with them.
“Ouch! Well, if that ain’t the catfish’s whiskers, as Pa always says. A blamed splinter! Ouch! Ouch!” The voice belonged to the fishmonger’s son.
Good, thought Emily, serves him right! But she was still frightened. This was not Mrs. Meeching, but how much better was Kipper? After the way he had behaved in the kitchen with Tilly, think how he would relish turning Emily over to Mrs. Meeching! If only he would hurry with his logs and leave so Emily could escape to the parlor. But he was still dawdling with them when Mrs. Meeching returned.
“How dare you enter my room without permission!” she hissed at him in a voice stiff with rage.
“Well, the door was open, mum, ’n’ I wanted to get the logs built so’s you could have a nice fire aroaring ’fore you got back.” Kipper was using the same brand of oil he had applied to Tilly.
“Oh, I suppose that’s all right. But see you don’t do it again.”
“Oh no, mum!” said Kipper earnestly.
For a few moments there was only the sound of wood being knocked against wood, and a drawer sliding open and shut. Then suddenly Mrs. Meeching said sharply, “What was that?”
“What was what, mum?”
“That sound. I heard something drop.”
Something had indeed dropped—the peppermint from Emily’s hand! It fell right by her feet, but unfortunately just beyond the edge of the velvet drapery for the whole room to see, if it looked in the right place.
“I didn’t hear anything, mum,” said Kipper brightly. “Expect it were a bit o’ wood falling.”
“Nonsense! I heard something.” Suspicion oozed from every letter of the word.
Then logs clattered noisily in the fireplace, and Mrs. Meeching hissed her displeasure.
“Sorry ’bout that, mum,” Kipper piped up.
“Oh, never mind!” snarled Mrs. Meeching. “But as long as I must put up with this, there are a few words I’ve been meaning to have with you.” She lowered her voice. “Have you met the orphan brat that’s come here to live?”
“Yes, mum. I met the skinny little thing in the kitchen th’other day. Ain’t worth much, I’d say.”
“Quite right, Kipper! I’m only keeping her here out of the kindness of my heart—to please Mrs. Luccock. But I’m afraid Emily isn’t to be trusted. Do you understand my meaning?”
“Oh yes, mum!” said Kipper soulfully.
“Well—” There was a long pause filled with meaning. “What I want you to do is keep an eye on her whenever you’re here. Report to me if you catch her doing anything— suspicious. Snooping about, as it were. If you do, there’s a packet of peppermints in it for you!”
“Yum! Yum!” said Kipper.
“Ahhh! I see you’d like that, eh?”
“Yum! Yum!”
“That’s right, rub your stomach! Well, come to me with a report, and you shall have one.”
“Oh thank you, mum! Yum! Yum!”
“Well, that’s settled then. Now, aren’t you finished with that fireplace yet?”
“I’m not near done yet, mum. But you ain’t got any cause to worry. I’ll just finish up and close the door tight shut when I go.”
“You must do more than that, Kipper. You must fetch Mrs. Plumly to lock up.”
“Yes, mum, I’ll do that all right. Oh yes, mum.”
“That’s a very good boy.” Kipper’s oily performance was clearly having its effect on Mrs. Meeching. “Well then, I shall now leave, and—don’t forget the packet of peppermints!”
“Oh no, mum! I won’t forget. Yum! Yum!”
That slimy, slimy fishmonger’s boy! That horrible, treacherous Mrs. Meeching! Behind the velvet drapery, Emily was a seething mixture of horror and terror and rage.
A few moments passed, and then with a start, she realized that the room had suddenly become very quiet. Had Kipper already gone for Mrs. Plumly? With one trembling finger, Emily pushed the red velvet aside an inch. And found herself staring straight into a pair of scowling blue eyes!
“See here, ain’t you got more sense ’n to come nosing ’round in the snake pit? Ain’t you ’ware that the snake lady eats folks five times your size for breakfast? And lastest, but far and ’way not the leastest, seems to me you dropped something.” Kipper opened up a stern hand to reveal the offending peppermint. “Here, Emily! Yum! Yum!”