Emily was on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor when a strong smell of fish announced Kipper’s arrival. He was cradling in his arms the familiar newspaper-wrapped parcel, but his normally cheerful face looked stricken.
“It’s been found out, ain’t it!” he exclaimed.
Emily barely looked up at him. “N-n-no,” she stammered in a small, fading voice.
Kipper’s clear eyes narrowed suddenly as he thumped the package of fish down in the sink. “All right, Emily, me girl, you’d best come clean with me. If it ain’t been found out, and it ain’t in the room where it was to stay—and it ain’t because I looked— then where is it? Pa’ll have my skin in strips if anything happens to you on ’count o’ that kitten.”
Emily finally gathered the courage to look Kipper in the eye. “It’s—it’s up in Mrs. Poovey’s and Mrs. Loops’s room.”
“In Mrs. Whats’s and Mrs. Who’s room?” Kipper exploded. “I thought you was acting mighty fishy, if you’ll pardon the expression. What in thunderation is it doing up there after I warned you, Emily?”
“I had a very good reason.” Emily sniffed indignantly.
“Well, it had better be!” Kipper produced as cold a look as someone with his cheerful red hair and cheeks could muster. “Perhaps you’d just best tell me ’bout it, if you don’t mind.”
“All right then,” said Emily, “if you want to know, I wasn’t going to take the kitten to show the old people, except that the very next meal after you gave it to me, I ate all my soup and every crumb of my lump of bread. So there!”
“Fish syrup!” said Kipper grimly. “ ’Twas the fish syrup done that, not the kitten.”
“It might have been partly the fish syrup, but it was mostly the kitten.” Emily threw her chin up defiantly. “I carried it upstairs hidden in my cleaning bucket, and I never met anybody, and it never mewed!”
“Well,” said Kipper, “you might have, and it might have, and what you done was stoopid, Emily!”
This lecture was followed by several minutes during which both parties sank into stony silence.
Then at last Kipper said gruffly, “All right, as long as you done it, you might as well tell me all ’bout it.”
This was all the persuasion Emily needed. She was bursting to tell Clarabelle’s story, and before she had finished, Kipper could no longer hide his grudging admiration.
“So have all the old ones seen the kitten now?” he asked.
“Not quite all,” replied Emily, “but Mrs. Poovey and Mrs. Loops intend to see that they do, every one of them. And Kipper, you can’t imagine how it is now when I go into the rooms where Clarabelle has been, everyone smiling at me and making conversation.”
“And calling you a dear child, too, no doubt!” Kipper grinned. “I suppose you deserve it, so no need to blush ’bout it.”
“Anyway,” Emily continued when she had recovered from the blush, “Clarabelle will need some more fish and some milk and some sand, and—”
“And I ain’t got a choice, I suppose, but to be the one to pervide all them necessities o’ life?” inquired Kipper.
“Oh yes, please,” said Emily quite matter-of-factly, as if the whole thing was settled and there was nothing more to be said about it.
Kipper could only stand and stare at her. It could be said that the kitten had, in fact, got his tongue!
“And there’s something I haven’t told you yet, Kipper,” Emily said. “This morning at breakfast, all the old people finished their gruel, six asked for more, and some even began on their bread lumps. There now, tell me Clarabelle hadn’t anything to do with it!”
“Dingus, Emily,” said Kipper, “if you ain’t the one!”
The morning meal, the noon meal, and the evening meal were becoming livelier and livelier events, what with gruel, fish head stew, and soup being drained down to the bottom of the bowl, bread being eaten up so rapidly that in no time at all fresh bread had to be provided, and the secret smiles and glances that were passed along with the tea bag as it travelled around the table. Once, when Mr. Popple dropped the bag into his tin cup with a splash, a few small sounds of choked mirth were actually heard! Unfortunately, however, as mealtimes grew to be sunnier and sunnier occasions, the atmosphere around the head of the table grew darker and darker and frostier and frostier, like a storm cloud building up over the North Pole.
This worried Emily, but she could not see how Mrs. Meeching could possibly lock someone in the Remembrance Room for finishing a bowl of soup or a lump of bread, or for simply smiling. And Clarabelle remained safely hidden. Emily had no idea how it was managed. It seemed a miracle to her that when she arrived for her chores each day, there was never a trace of Clarabelle’s existence anywhere. The kitten only appeared magically when it was determined that the approaching footsteps were Emily’s alone.
One day Emily was bursting with still more news for Kipper. Mr. Dobbs had said he wished he had a whittling knife and a small bit of wood so that he could carve a likeness of Clarabelle. Mrs. Quirk wished for colored wool and a square of canvas to cross stitch the picture of a kitten that would in time be made into a pillow for Clarabelle. And as for Mrs. Poovey and Mrs. Loops, well, “Mrs. Poovey wants some watercolors to paint Clarabelle’s portrait, and Mrs. Loops would like paper, pen, and ink to write a story about her! Almost all the old people want to make something that has to do with Clarabelle. Isn’t that splendid, Kipper?”
“Splendid it may be, Emily,” Kipper said, “but who got the money to buy all them things? I ain’t got ’nough, even with my delivery jobs. I don’t much like asking Pa for it, him not exactly being a millionaire nor anything like that. And you certainly ain’t got any bankroll, Emily, as I can notice. So where would it come from?”
“I do have something!” Emily blurted out. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I—I have twenty gold coins!”
Kipper’s eyelids flew up so suddenly they almost lifted him off the floor. “Twenty gold coins? Come long, Emily, you ain’t got any such thing.”
“Yes, I do, Kipper! Aunt Twice and I hid them in—” Emily felt a firm hand clapped over her mouth.
“If you really do got any such pirate’s treasure,” Kipper said, scowling, “I don’t want any knowledge o’ where it’s hid. Suppose, just suppose someone was to take it. Who would you think done it? Why the one who knowed where it was, that’s who! But if you want to spend any o’ that loot on the old people’s paints and wool and all them things, why you just give me one o’ them coins. It’ll last a month o’ Sundays. Then you just keep the rest close hidden, and don’t tell anybody ’bout it.”
So without even telling Aunt Twice, Emily carefully removed one gold coin from its hiding place in her mattress and gave it to Kipper. Soon carving, stitching and painting, modeling, weaving and crocheting were all busily embarked upon in the upper reaches of Sugar Hill Hall. Curiously, Emily never saw a trace of any of this activity going on, any more than she saw traces of Clarabelle. And yet when she arrived upstairs, Mr. Dobbs might show her a small piece of wood that was magically turning into a kitten, or Mrs. Quirk a whole square inch of cross stitches that somehow resembled a kitten’s ear, or Mrs. Poovey a beautiful painting that came closer and closer to being Clarabelle every day.
The excitement over Clarabelle, suppressed though much of it had to be, for a while managed to take Emily’s mind off the mysteries that shrouded the mansion. But they were like ghosts waiting in the wings, as in a play, for the right moment to reappear on the stage. And whenever Emily saw her pale, harried Aunt Twice, or received a trembling, secret smile from Mrs. Plumly, the ghosts were back to haunt her. She wanted desperately to tell them both about Clarabelle, but the two already shared a terrible secret. It would be cruel to bring another dangerous secret into their lives.
Emily saw no reason, however, why she should not visit Mrs. Plumly again, as invited, and she intended to do so. But she could never be certain when it was safe to knock on the closed door so the visit had not yet been paid. Then one day as she was climbing the stairs with her bucket, the door to Mrs. Plumly’s room swung open, and Mrs. Plumly peered out cautiously, beckoning Emily to enter her room.
“I think we can feel safe for a few moments,” she whispered. “Mrs. Meeching has gone out on an errand. I have some sad news, dear child, and I felt you should know of it. Mrs. Meeching has informed me that your trunks have been lost. Lost, hmmmph!” she said, sounding remarkably like Mrs. Poovey. “Stolen, more likely!”
“Stolen!” breathed Emily.
“Yes, indeed! And you in that poor, raggedly little dress. Mrs. Meeching will no doubt inform you that they were— lost, but I want you to know, child, that I will do all in my power to see that a warm dress is purchased for you.”
A new dress could be purchased, but not Mama’s jewels! Should she tell Mrs. Plumly about them? Emily wondered miserably. No, she decided, better not. Mrs. Plumly was unhappy enough, and no need to add to her woe. The jewels were gone, and that was that. “Thank you, Aunty Plum!” was all Emily said, and she said it fervently.
Mrs. Plumly smiled. “I must say that in spite of that sad dress, you are looking so much better now, almost as if you were able to eat all the food placed on the table before you.”
“Oh, I am!” cried Emily. It was all she could do not to tell, right then and there, about the fish syrup, Clarabelle, and all the activities now taking place just above their heads. But she said nothing.
“You aren’t eating so much, dear child, that you would turn down a little cake and perhaps even a cup of tea—with lots of sugar and milk, of course!” Mrs. Plumly laughed. “Oh, the look on your face, child!”
Knowing that Mrs. Meeching was away seemed to make this visit so much pleasanter than the last. Emily had two lemon tarts and a chocolate cream eclair, and she and Mrs. Plumly talked and talked. They talked only about Emily’s past, however, about her friend Theodora, her dear housekeeper Mrs. Leslie, and of course about Mama and Papa. They even laughed and giggled like schoolgirls together when Emily told of some of her pranks as a small girl, like the time she had hidden Mama’s silver thimble. It had seemed so naughty then! Before Emily knew it, she had finished two cups of tea, was allowing a third to be poured, and had lost all track of time.
She might have stayed there the day if the doleful grandfather clock had not warned from the dining room that it was already eleven, and she had not even begun her chores. With a start, she jumped up from her chair. And it was at that exact moment that the door flew open, and Mrs. Meeching stood there!
“So this is what happens when I’m away, Mrs. Plumly!” Her face was contorted with pale rage.
Mrs. Plumly began to tremble violently. “I—I—”
“Silence! There is nothing you can say. Nothing! After all my kindness, all my generosity—entertaining this orphan brat no sooner I am out of sight.’ Mrs. Meeching turned to Emily and fixed her with a look of icy hatred. “Get out of my sight. Go to your room and stay there until you are sent for. Then you will see how those are dealt with who take advantage of their place in Sugar Hill Hall!”
With a shaking hand, Emily picked up her bucket and fled the room. When she heard the door slam behind her, it seemed to slam right on her breast, knocking out every last breath of air. That she herself might be punished, she had no doubt, but what, what would happen to Mrs. Plumly?
It was five terrible hours before an ashen-faced Aunt Twice appeared at the door to Emily’s cellar room to inform her that they were all wanted in the parlor by Mrs. Meeching. Her heart thumping with terror, Emily scurried up the stairs behind her deadly silent aunt. But whatever Emily expected to find when she reached her destination, nothing in her wildest imagination could have matched the scene that greeted her when she finally stepped into the parlor.
Directly in front of the peppermints now stood a long, thin table pointing into the room like a sharp, accusing finger. Huddled to one side of it stood Mrs. Poovey and Mrs. Loops, Mr. Bottle and Mr. Dobbs, Mrs. Middle and Mrs. Odd, Mr. Popple and Mr. Quish, Mrs. Apple and Mrs. Quirk, Mrs. Dolly and Mrs. Biggs, Mr. Flower and Mr. Figg, and in fact every one of the old people, all staring at the table as if their frightened eyes were nailed to it. At the head of the table, her back to the peppermints, stood Mrs. Meeching, flanked on one side by Tilly, and on the other by Mrs. Plumly, who was not knitting, but looked instead as if she had turned to stone.
On the table before Mrs. Meeching, displayed as if in evidence for a criminal trial, was a large brown bottle of fish syrup Emily had left for safekeeping in Mrs. Poovey’s and Mrs. Loops’s room. Beside it, looking lost and lonely on that long table, lay Mrs. Poovey’s cameo and Emily’s locket.
But there was a great deal more. There were Mrs. Poovey’s paints and her portrait of Clarabelle, Mrs.
Loops’s pen and ink and writing paper, Mr. Dobbs’s whittling knife and his small wood figure of a kitten, Mrs. Quirk’s wool and cross-stitched picture, plus more paints, wool, thread, wood, and all the other pitiful bits and pieces resembling Clarabelle that the old people had been working on so diligently. And there, dangling by the scruff of her tiny neck from Tilly’s rough hand, was Clarabelle herself!
So everything had been discovered. The eyes and ears of Sugar Hill Hall had done their work, and the one to be blamed for it all was Mrs. Plumly. Was it possible that her other terrible secret, the one guarded so carefully by both Mrs. Plumly and Aunt Twice, had been discovered as well?
For a few moments after Aunt Twice and Emily arrived, a deathly silence hung over the parlor. Then Mrs. Meeching’s bloodless, pinched nose flared slightly, releasing one hiss of air for the benefit of all assembled, and her thin lips began to move.
“So you all thought you could get away with something, eh? Well, as you can see, you weren’t nearly so clever as you thought. My walls have eyes, you know.” As if to make certain no one missed this point, Mrs. Meeching’s own eyes narrowed to cruel slits. “I thought you had all learned that here you do as I say, and no use complaining about it to anyone else. You are all only shadows, you know. Nobody sees you or thinks about you, especially the people who have brought you here. They see you even less than anyone else, because they don’t want to see you. And not wanting to see is the most effective kind of blindness, don’t you know?”
Mrs. Meeching paused to fix each old resident of Sugar Hill Hall with a piercing stare. “So in the end, if you wish to complain, you had better complain to me.” This said with all the sincere feeling of a rattlesnake. “As to the matter of punishment, you should all be thrown into the Remembrance Room for these crimes. Because there is one among you, however, whose crimes are so much greater than all the rest, you will be pleased to know that she will pay for all of you.” At this, Mrs. Meeching suddenly drew herself up into a tight tower of rage. Her thin lips gripped her bony teeth, and her eyes became pinpoints of hatred.
“It is the person,” she spit out, “who sneaked this cat into the attics of Sugar Hill Hall and who stealthily crept through the hallways poisoning its inhabitants with a loathesome concoction. It is the person who has grown fat on my bounty, and then repaid the kindness of my warm, generous heart with deceit and ingratitude. And that person, as you may well have guessed, is the conniving, vicious, vile Emily Luccock!”
A moment after the words rang out in the silent, cold, shadowy parlor, there was a loud thump as Mrs. Plumly, her eyes rolled up, fell to the floor in a dead faint. Aunt Twice gasped and clutched her throat. Until the moment Emily’s name was spoken, both ladies must have thought they were the ones to be found guilty of the crimes. But it was Emily, and now the sentence was to be pronounced.
“For this treachery, the orphan brat’s punishment will be: first, that she forfeit the nineteen remaining gold coins that she secretly and treacherously hid in her mattress.” (Those discovered too! thought Emily.) “Second, that her partner in crime, that filthy fishmonger’s boy, shall nevermore set foot in this place. And third, that she shall be locked in the Remembrance Room for twenty-one days, remembering how very good I have been to her, and what an ungrateful, evil child she is. As for the cat,” hissed Mrs. Meeching, “take it out, Tilly, and drown it!”
Clarabelle to be drowned! Everything ended! And herself to be thrown into the Remembrance Room for twenty-one days! Numb with horror, Emily trailed after the tall, icy figure of Mrs. Meeching through the dining room, past the kitchen, down the stairs, up the dark passageway to the dreaded room at the end. A key grated in a rusty lock. A boneless hand caressed the door to the sound of a long, lingering hiss. The heavy door opened with a groan. A small, trembling body entered the room. The door clanged shut. The key turned again in the lock with a squeal of anguish, and Emily was enclosed in the deepest, darkest, coldest underground tomb of Sugar Hill Hall.
Who could have told the secret of Clarabelle, Kipper’s Pa’s fish syrup, and even the nineteen gold coins? Emily’s brain was too frozen even to think. But there was one thing she did know. When she had passed Tilly at the stairwell dangling poor, doomed little Clara-belle by the scruff of the neck, Emily had caught the distinct, definite, unmistakable breath of PEPPERMINT!