Mouse Heart E-Book

Fleur Hitchcock

• Herausgeber: Nosy Crow
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 240

Beschreibung

This atmospheric thriller, full of daring stunts and sinister villains, is perfect escapism for 9+ readers. Mouse, a foundling, loves her pieced-together family at the Moth Theatre fiercely. When their leading man, Walter, is wrongly arrested for murder, Mouse swears she'll free him. But another member of the cast has a secret identity ­- as a ruthless killer. As Mouse's investigation leads her ever closer to their true, deadly nature, can she outwit them without losing everything she holds dear? A masterfully told adventure from the acclaimed author of The Boy Who Flew and Murder in Midwinter, Mouse Heart is ideal for fans of Philip Pullman, Katherine Rundell and Philip Reeve.

Leseprobe

For Isla, for lending me your mum

1

The mouse may sometimes help the lion in need.

Proverb

’Tis a bold mouse that nestles in the cat’s ear.

Proverb

2

These events take place during the reign of Queen Anne II

Prologue

A harbour.

All around, tall-sailed ships creak.

Night creatures scuttle away.

The cobbles glow pink. Not from the crime about to happen, but with the coming of the September dawn.

From what is left of the shadows, two figures emerge.

A blade is raised and a scream splits the empty quayside, scaring sleeping gulls into the air.

A moment later – uproar.

Feet clatter through the alleyways.

Run. Run!

Chapter 1

I’ve waited half an hour for Valentina. Watched a shaft of morning sunlight sundial on and off the stage while the seagulls battled overhead.

“Maybe she’s forgotten us, Dog,” I say, rubbing the grey ears of my old friend. He opens an eye and lets his head fall heavier on my leg. Outside, a church bell chimes seven times and someone uses the pump at the back of the theatre. Pumping, washing. Pumping, washing.

I shrug Dog off my knee and unsheathe my little rapier. I stand by the line of sunlight and let the blade dance in the air, swooping and sliding, catching the sunbeams and flicking the fractured light across the balconies that ring the stage. I parry, I lunge, driving the point towards my unseen foe and twisting the blade home.

“Touché! Brava! Bene, bene!” a scrawny figure calls from the shadows. It’s Mr Hawkin, the man who runs the theatre company. “What skill, what promise!” He clamps a broom handle to his chest, claps, and a crow takes off from the side of the stage and flies out through the open roof.

I’m staring up at it when my blade is whisked from my hand by a second sword. I race to grab it but it spins and falls, to land embedded in the wooden boards next to Mr Hawkin’s shoe.

“I say!” he says, jumping aside. Dog barks once and leaps from the stage to the sawdust floor below.

“There, poppet!” says Valentina, advancing across the stage. “Get out of that one!”

“How did you do that?” I look up at her.

“Skill, Mouse. Natural skill.” She plucks a black hat from her head and bows. As she rises, her hair bubbles free in a copper cloud, bright against her black clothing. “So sorry I’m late. Now – ready?”

She lowers the point of her sword so that it rests on the third button on my shirt.

“Come on, sweetie,” she whispers. “Don’t let your heart rule your head.”

She pushes damp cuffs up her arms and the pale hairs catch the light. I watch her elbow – I know that it will flicker before she moves.

I step back, she advances, and I drop to the ground hands first and flip myself under her sword to the other side of the stage.

“Brava! Brava!” Mr Hawkin claps as I grasp the hilt of my sword and yank it from the wood.

“Allez!” shouts Valentina. “Go, Mouse, go!”

We circle each other. Valentina glides over the boards. We clash.

“Oh, splendid!” Mr Hawkin stamps his broom on the stage.

I hear angry crows above and running feet outside but my gaze is fixed on her sword.

She feints left; I leap to the right.

“Help! Help!” Sudden shouts come from outside the theatre. Caught mid-stroke, we freeze.

“What—” Valentina drops her sword.

The side door of the theatre crashes open and Walter staggers in, his usually sunny face rigid with fear. “I didn’t do it!” he cries, stepping into the circle of sunlight, holding up his fingers and examining them as if he doesn’t understand where the blood could have come from. “Help me! Mouse, Valentina. Help me!”

“Giove!” exclaims Mr Hawkin. “Is that … real blood?”

Walter falls to his knees and holds out his palms. They’re thick with it. “Hide me!” he says. “They think I did it.”

Chapter 2

While Valentina charges into action, rubbing Walter’s footprints from the sawdust, I’m paralysed.

Mr Hawkin shuts and bars the side door and almost as soon as he does, someone pounds on the main doors, sharp and angry.

“Mouse?” Walter looks up at me. He’s crying.

“Let’s wash it off,” I say, burying my fear and dragging him to his feet.

“No time for that,” says Valentina. “We have to hide him. The costume store.”

Running with his hands out as if they belong to someone else, Walter races up the stairs and we follow him.

“Where?” he says, stopping in the doorway of the costume store.

Valentina points to the largest of the hampers.

From down below I can hear men shouting and Mr Hawkin bellows, “Hold on, hold on, I’m coming, but we’re closed, you know!”

Valentina and I throw everything out of the hamper while Walter stands staring at the blood clotting on his fingernails.

“I don’t even know who she is.”

“Who?” says Valentina, grunting as she pulls out the heavy velvet cloaks folded in the bottom of the hamper.

“The woman – I think she was already dead. It was … it was horrible.”

The shouting intensifies. “They’re in the theatre,” I say, dragging the empty hamper to the back of the room. “Who are those men?”

“I don’t know. The law?” whimpers Walter. “I’m scared, Mouse.”

I grip his bloody hand and hold it tight. I should say something comforting, but instead I’m panicking.

Valentina leans forward and kisses the top of his head. “You’ll be fine. Just get in there.”

Wiping his hands on his jacket, Walter clambers over the side of the hamper. There are smears of blood on the wicker. I heap the cloaks on his head and Valentina wipes the blood away with a handkerchief. We jam the lid on the hamper, throw curtains over the top and rush to sit quietly at the sewing table under a little window.

Valentina pulls a frilled dress over from the side, heaping it across her legs, and threads a needle. She starts sewing a strip of lace to the cuffs.

“Slow your breathing,” she whispers. “And don’t panic. They’ll be looking for panic.”

I glance up at her.

She points back at the fabric. She seems to know what we need to do, as if she’s tangled with people like this before.

Filling my hands with cloth and pins I randomly pin the bottom of a dress. I must keep my fingers moving. Otherwise they’ll shake.

Dog sits beside me, ears twitching, but his tail lies flat on the floor. He looks up at me as if I can explain the sounds coming from below.

Feet thump on the staircases and I hear Mr Hawkin protest. Glancing up at the door, I spot a red handprint. Oh no! But then I remember it must come from the murder play we did last. Walter’s hands were dripping that time too. And Valentina did a whole chunk where she tried to wash blood off her palms.

It was really good.

I got murdered.

I quite often get murdered.

The audiences like plays with murders in them.

Breathe, Mouse, breathe.

I’m trying hard not to think about the men.

Don’t let the fear in.

Bang!

The door to the costume store swings open and two men in heavy grey coats burst in.

“Perfect!” says the one in front. He’s short, almost bald and grizzled. He narrows his eyes as he surveys the lines of hanging costumes. “Lots of itty-bitty hiding places for our villain.”

“Our … murderer,” says his partner, rolling the “R” in the middle of the word. This man’s tall and young-looking, with a sprouty beard and raggedy teeth to match.

“Quite correct,” says the first. “We are indeed seeking a mur-de-rer.”

“He could easily be in here…” The second man pulls a sword and gestures to a pile of sacking. The sword is not like the little one I fight with, but a long, heavy, mean kind of sword that would run a person through. “Or in here!” He pokes the blade into the holes at the top of the smallest hamper.

“I could even do a little of this!” He lunges and the sword runs smoothly through the layers of costumes inside.

“No!” squawks Mr Hawkin. “Those are our livelihood! You can’t do that!”

“Show us where he is and we won’t.” The young man pauses, his sword in mid-air. His gaze is flicking all around the room.

“We know he’s in the theatre – we saw him come in,” says the older one from the door.

“There’s a back entrance, you know,” I say as loudly as I dare.

The grey one looks around the eaves. “Did someone speak?” he says. He comes over to me and examines the cloth in my hands. He reaches for it and I let him pick it up. “What’s this?”

“A costume,” I mumble.

“A costume.” He nods his head. He smells stale and there’s a fresh trickle of sweat running down from his ear to the grubby top of his shirt collar. “So why is there a row of pins right through the middle? Eh? Not a hem, not attaching two things to each other – just right through the middle.”

“Stop it!” says Valentina. “She’s just a child – while I sew, she amuses herself with the pins. Is that a problem?” she says the final word as if she thinks the man is stupid.

He leans forward, his nose meeting hers.

“Rot!” he says. “I know you theatre types. You can climb on the roof by the time you’re weaned. You’re on stage before you can talk. So don’t lie to me, pretty lady, or I’ll have you.”

Valentina brushes his face to the side. It’s not a slap, but it’s firm, and then she stands. She’s far taller than him and I can see it doesn’t please him one bit.

Beyond them, the other one has opened the costume hampers. All of them. He’s jabbing each one in turn. The sword dips in and out, slicing through the fabric below.

“Anyone in there?” he says, as if he’s playing hide and seek with a small child. “Come out to play, little one – we just want to clap you in irons!”

I stare at the large hamper. I can’t help it. And I know I’m probably showing all the signs of panic. I unclench my fist and sneak a glance at my palms. They’re smeared with blood from Walter’s hand.

The room is holding its breath. Mr Hawkin is wide-eyed, staring at the mess of costumes. I’m guessing he’s more worried about the costumes than Walter.

Valentina is fuming. I can feel it.

The man with the sword reaches the large hamper. “Wakey-wakey, little man. Time to get out of the basket!”

“Stop!” Red fingers emerge, grip the side of the hamper and Walter, snow-faced, stands. He’s shaking.

“Out you get,” says the man. “Here.” He holds out his hand as if Walter is an elderly woman needing help down from a horse. “Now, that was silly, wasn’t it? We could just have arrested you without making holes in all these pretty clothes.”

Chapter 3

I watch as they trap Walter’s wrists in heavy metal rings.

I stand by as they drag Walter down the stairs and then push him from the stage to the pit. He lands badly and limps for a few paces, but the two men don’t care.

Nobody’s doing anything to stop it. Valentina and Mr Hawkin are just watching.

Without warning the words explode out of me. “You can’t!” I shout. “You can’t take Walter.”

“Oh yes we can,” says the short one, pushing me back. “Oh yes we can. I’m Jameson and he’s Stuart. We work for the queen and you’re a nothing.”

A nothing?

I dart under the man’s arms and leap down into the pit, grabbing Walter’s coat-tails and hanging on as tight as I can. Then I hook my elbow round Walter’s, and Dog jumps down beside me and takes Walter’s sleeve in his teeth, pulling him towards the stage. We can do this, we can get him back. Walter bends his knees. We slump together on the sawdust of the theatre floor. Dead weights, entangled.

“You’re being quite a nuisance,” says Stuart, the tall one. He jumps down next to me and picks me up under my armpits, yanking me away from Walter. As he swings me round I grab his arm and try to sink my teeth into it but he pulls my head back using my hair as a handle. Finally he draws his sword and points it at me. “Now, stay there, you!”

Dog leaps, but Jameson is there now and kicks him aside, and Dog skids through the sawdust, struggling to stay upright. He suddenly looks really old.

I sit with my back to the stage, licking blood from my lip, keeping my face as hard as the earth. Jameson shoves open the main doors and Stuart marches Walter outside, his sword-point in the small of Walter’s back.

“Bye-bye, all!” says Jameson. “Oh yes, before you start calling in your powerful friends, remember – harbouring a criminal is an offence. We could overlook our little search – or we could not. It depends…” Doffing his three-cornered hat, he gives us a mocking bow and waves a cheery goodbye. He slams the door shut behind him.

There’s an awful silence in the theatre. Mr Hawkin stares at the door as if Walter might come back through to deliver his punchline.

But he doesn’t.

Chapter 4

The silence lasts a second longer before Mr Hawkin erupts.

“What in heaven’s name just happened?” he demands.

“I don’t know,” says Valentina. She looks shocked, but not as shocked as Mr Hawkin, who has turned chalk white.

“What did that boy get involved in? This is not good, not good at all. Think of the reputation of the theatre – a murderer in our midst? How – how…” Mr Hawkin can’t think of the word.

“Walter wouldn’t kill anyone!” I shout, fighting down a surge of furious tears.

“That blood on his hands came from somewhere,” says Valentina.

A figure slips through the door from the back of the theatre and stops in the deep shade of the stage curtain. It’s Kwadwo, the man who fixes everything and everyone in the building. He peers around the side of the curtain, checking, I know, to see if the soldiers have gone. If he's hiding, he's not doing a very good job; his dark-brown face is shiny and his cheeks and forehead reflect the light, as does his nose. And Kwadwo has a very long nose. Longer even than Mr Hawkin’s. Dog raises his head, moans and lets his head fall again. He likes Kwadwo. I like Kwadwo. He’s kind. He’s my friend.

“What just happened?” He steps out into the sun, impeccably dressed; neat, buff breeches and clean stockings beneath a kingfisher-blue jacket. Unlike anyone else in the theatre Kwadwo is always presentable. “I heard shouting.”

“The law has taken Walter,” says Mr Hawkin.

“They think he murdered someone,” I mutter.

“Walter?” says Kwadwo, running his fingers through his close-cropped hair. “Walter’s the gentlest man I ever met. I don’t believe this. Who would he even want to murder?”

He’s right. Walter’s not the murdering kind. He’s the kindest, sweetest man. He looks after fledgling chicks and rescues drowned kittens. I was one of them. When I was a few hours old, Dog found me mewling inside a costume hamper, and it was Walter who washed the velvet dress I was wrapped in and tried to feed me. He was the one who named me Mouse after the field mice that shared my velvet dress, and persuaded the rest of the theatre company that they could bring up a baby. He was only twelve.

“We don’t know much,” says Mr Hawkin, leaning towards Kwadwo and lowering his voice. “It seems…”

I watch Mr Hawkin embellish the tale. He acts something out with a broom, thrusting at the air.

Valentina sighs. “It’s all very unexpected. I feel quite…” she says, and runs off across the theatre towards the stairs.

For a moment I’m on my own. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and try to keep fear at arm’s length.

A sharp little voice scratches across the sawdust. “Crybaby!”

It’s Eve. One of the Hawkin children. She and her brother Adam are usually together. Her in front, him behind. Eve is … poisonous. Adam’s her kinder shadow.

I pull my collar up and bury my head between my knees. Dog settles alongside me and blows hot breath in my ear.

“Dog. Here, Dog,” she calls.

Dog ignores her.

“Why don’t you play with me?” says Eve in a plaintive voice. I peer around my collar. She’s sitting on the side of the stage with her hands in her lap, her feet crossed at the ankle. Innocence.

“Go away!” I snap.

“Mama!” Eve patters away into the shadows at the back of the gallery where the Hawkin family live. I hear the door slam and Eve’s wounded voice pleading with her mother about Dog.

Adam, far more ragged than his sister, emerges from their quarters to stare at me.

“Mouse?” he says. “I saw Walter. I’m…” He doesn’t seem to know what he is. His face says he’s sorry. He tries a wonky smile but wipes his face clean when I don’t smile back.

“Mouse!” Valentina arrives alongside me in a cloud of perfume and powder. She’s changed her clothes; she’s wearing a russet dress that almost matches the red of her hair. She reaches around my shoulders and hugs me properly, closely, pressing my head to her chest. I’m slightly aware that Adam is still watching.

“Walter,” is all I can say.

“It’ll be all right, little rabbit.”

“Will it?” I swallow. I want to believe her. It’s so easy to believe Valentina. She knows so much about the world. “And what about harbouring a criminal like the man said? Will they put us in prison too?”

“I don’t know,” she says, pursing her lips. “I don’t think they can imprison us all, can they, sweetie? Think how big the prison would have to be to contain Mr H. Just huge!” She smiles and gently prods the end of my hot nose.

“What do you think happened?” I ask.

Valentina stares into the air over my head. “I expect Walter came upon someone in trouble. Being Walter, he tried to help. Poor man – he should have walked on.”

“But what’ll happen to him?”

She goes still, staring up at the circle of sky above the theatre. “Prison but…” She strokes my head. “We’ll think of a way to help him.”

“What way?” I ask.

Valentina pauses for the longest time. “I don’t know. Yet.” She wanders over to the stage and picks up my little sword. She holds it in the sunlight and bounces the reflected sunbeams around the theatre. “I’m going to need to think about it.”

Chapter 5

A second later, the side door of the theatre bangs back on its hinges and a man bursts into the sunlight. For the tiniest moment, I think it’s Walter, but I’m disappointed. It’s Ambrose, another actor.

“Is it true?” he asks the air before seating himself on a shady straw bale and mopping his face with a handkerchief. He arranges his jacket alongside so that it doesn’t crease. He pulls out the lace of his cuffs and brushes a mote of dust from his shin. With walnut-stained hair and a painted pointy beard, he’s probably the vainest member of the company. He doesn’t live here with the rest of us. He has another life, outside. “At the coffee house this morning, there was talk of a hideous murder down at Welsh Back and, more importantly for us, an arrest. It sounded like Walter!”

“It was Walter,” says Valentina. “What do you know?”

“Everything I heard is rumour. Blood, tragic death on Welsh Back. First-hand accounts from people who weren’t there, the usual guff, but I also heard of connections to our dear queen, and––”

“So Walter’s done a murder, eh?” interrupts another voice. It’s Bridget. She bustles in through the side door, basket in hand. She also doesn’t live in the theatre. She does costumes and says she used to be a leading lady in Bath. A blunt woman, she’s got a mushroom nose and grey corkscrew hair that’s surrounded by a border of red skin from wearing wigs and make-up. I don’t much like her and she doesn’t much like me, but we rub along.

“He didn’t do it,” I say.

Bridget ignores me. “So who did he kill?”

“He didn’t,” I say again. “It’s a mistake.”

“Shut up, girl,” says Bridget. “I’m trying to find out what’s happened.”

“As I was going to tell you, this much I know for sure,” says Ambrose, rising from his hay bale and running up the stairs on to the stage. “Walter has been arrested by officers of our precious queen for the murder of Lady Margaret Grey!”

Valentina gasps and holds her hands over her mouth.

Another figure appears above us. It’s Mrs Hawkin with a basket of shredded undergarments that she begins to arrange on a washing line. The undergarments and Mrs Hawkin have a shared sense of exhaustion and overuse. Watched from below, she pauses and tilts her creaky neck. “Why are you all standing there with your mouths open? What’s happened?” she asks.

Ignoring Mrs Hawkin, Bridget asks Ambrose, “And who might Lady Grey be when she’s at home? Never heard of her.”

“She, my dear Bridget,” says Ambrose, stepping daintily towards her, “is – was – a favourite.”

“A favourite what?” I ask.

“A favourite to the queen,” says Valentina. “It means a close companion. I might have met her once.”

“I know what it means, Lady Muck,” says Bridget, pointing a finger at Valentina. “And of course you’ve met her. You’ve met everyone, haven’t you.”

Valentina narrows her eyes at Bridget, but Bridget ignores her. “But I still don’t understand why anyone would murder the queen’s favourite in our town. What was she even doing here? It makes no sense at all.”

“Just another murder,” says Valentina.

“Horrible thing to say,” says Bridget.

“Sorry,” says Valentina. “But it is.”

“Well, if you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all,” snaps Bridget, pulling a thread out of the hem of her skirt and cutting it with her teeth. “She’s a soul lost and that’s never a good thing.”

Everyone murmurs. I look across at Adam and Eve. They’ve sneaked down from their quarters and are now sitting opposite me on a bench. Eve sits perfectly still with her hands in her lap. Adam is kicking his toe against the ground. He has a grubby white bandage on his hand. His face is streaked, like he might have been crying. Maybe he’s missing Walter too. Or maybe Eve’s hurt him. She’s always hurting him.

“So what are we to do?” says Mr Hawkin. “One of us is accused of murder. Our reputation is in tatters! But this theatre is our living and our home. Should we keep the lights on in the Moth, our splendid house of entertainment? Stand our ground in the face of adversity and let the storm blow over? Or run for it?” He looks up at the sky. Then down to the ground – and waits.

“We must put it to the vote,” says Ambrose. “Personally, I could survive a week without money, but after that…”

“I could take in laundry,” says Bridget, staring at her pink hands. “But I’d rather not.”

“We should go. Up sticks and move away from here completely. Abandon the Moth. Find another theatre. Another city.” Ambrose looks at everyone. “I mean, actors are actors and what’s a theatre but a stage and some curtains?”

“We can’t do that!” I shout. “We’d be leaving Walter!”

“Shh, child,” says Bridget. “This is adult talk.”

I think dark thoughts but keep my mouth shut and dig my fingers into Dog’s hot fur.

“What do you say, Mrs Hawkin?” asks Mr Hawkin, looking to the gallery. His wife is leaning on the rails. It’s hard to imagine, but she was once our leading lady. She passes the back of her hand over her forehead and sighs. “I don’t know, Mr Hawkin,” she says.

We all look up at her. She’s the hardest-working person in this theatre. Not least because she’s mother to Eve and Adam and I respect her.

“Birds of one feather,” she says in the end.

There’s a silence while we all try to understand what she’s saying. Mrs Hawkin has a way of talking in proverbs. I don’t always see her meaning, but this time I think she’s telling us to stick together. I shoot her a tiny smile, and she beams one back.

“Valentina, my dear – what do you think?” asks Mr Hawkin.

“I think,” says Valentina, moving to the centre of the stage and kneeling, so that the sunlight falls around her in a pool. “I think…” she pauses until everyone is listening, “that to run would be cowardly, and a betrayal of our comrade, Walter.”

Yes!

Now that we’re all transfixed, she rises and paces in a small circle. She throws a wide embrace, addressing the empty seats above. “I say we stay and fight; we show our solidarity. We keep the theatre open! We shall not desert our brother!”

“Oh, brava! Brava!” says Mr Hawkin, clapping. “Formidable! Muy, muy bien! What words, duchess, what words! Now, who votes to leave?”

They look at each other, but none of them vote.

“And to stay?”

It’s slow, but they all raise their arms.

“Unanimous!” says Mr Hawkin. “We stay. Onward and upward, troupe. Onward and upward. We have a play to put on. Tonight’s performance will be blinding!”

Chapter 6

I want to go and see Walter. I want to go and see where this murder took place, but instead Mrs Hawkin has me polishing shoes and the more I do it, the more furious I feel.

Behind me, Valentina’s flapping around with a piece of paper, drawing long elegant letters in ink and tutting when the pen doesn’t behave like she wants it to. Her writing’s perfect. Just like her dancing and singing and sword fighting. Like me, she’s a foundling, but where I was rescued by a boy in a theatre, she says she was found by wolves in a forest. One of those wolves took her to a castle, to a duchess. The duchess decided to keep this strange, red-haired, silver-eyed feral baby, driving away her wolfish ways and replacing them with dancing and languages and beautiful handwriting. But sometimes, although in every sense a duchess, Valentina is still wild, and sometimes I can see the wolves in her eyes.

Like now.

“What am I going to do to help Walter, Valentina?”

She pulls my hair into a ponytail and swooshes it across her cheeks like a powder brush. “I’ve been thinking about that. Remember when I went away last year?”

I nod. Valentina missed a whole winter season. She went back to the duchess in her castle in the forest, where someone was ill and had called for Valentina. (Without her, Mrs Hawkin had to play Juliet to Walter’s Romeo. The audience thought it was hilarious.) When she came back, Valentina had money to spend and freckles on her cheeks.

She bounces the ponytail on my nose. “While I was travelling, I met some very important people, and one of them was a sea captain. I’ve written him a letter – you could deliver it for me.”

“He’s here?”

“Yes, amazingly his ship is moored on Narrow Quay this month.” Her smile stretches right across her face. Warm and reassuring.

“Why would he help Walter?”

“He likes me. And he’s a…” she hesitates. “A moral man. A truth-seeker. He’d want to see the right person convicted.” She hands me the boat’s name scribbled on the corner of an old script. “It’s right down the end of the quay at the moment. A big old ship. You’ll know it when you get there.”

“You could go. Mrs H has got me cleaning shoes,” I say.