The Midnight Peacock. Katherine Woodfine

familiarity. It had meant home. But lately, the sameness of Winter Hall had begun to get on her nerves. Tilly longed for something new and different, but her days just kept on going like clockwork: the gong sounding for luncheon; tea served promptly at half past four; Her Ladyship scolding her maid as she dressed for dinner; and below stairs, the maids ironing and the footmen polishing the silver and His Lordship’s valet brushing his shoes. Even the story of the supposedly haunted East Wing was an old tale that she’d heard half a dozen times before.

      Just the same, as she went down the corridor, Tilly suddenly wished she had let Sarah come with her after all. It wasn’t that she was scared – of course she wasn’t, she wasn’t an idiot. But this part of the house did feel rather dark and lonely.

      The East Wing was the oldest part of Winter Hall. Once in a blue moon, Her Ladyship would bring some visitors to look around; they would exclaim in delight over the antique furniture, the beautiful carved chimney-piece, the canopied bed upon which it was said Queen Elizabeth herself had slept. But most of the time, the family didn’t come here, preferring to keep to the plush comfort of the more modern West Wing with its electric light and running hot and cold water. The only one who was really interested in the East Wing was the youngest Fitzgerald daughter, Miss Leo: Tilly knew she sometimes spent hours here, looking at the pictures or making drawings of the old curiosities she found.

      Now, Tilly pushed open the door to the East Wing. It did not creak exactly: Mrs Dawes was far too particular for that. Instead, it made a strange little sighing sound – rather like someone letting out a breath. The dark passageway yawned ahead of her. As she stepped over the threshold the flame of her candle guttered in a breath of air, and for a moment, she thought it would go out.

      She could hear all the little noises of the house settling, a window rattling, and the wind howling outside, whirling about the house like a wild creature trying to get in. It sounded ghostly enough, and in spite of herself, Tilly shivered.

      But immediately she reminded herself that there was nothing to shiver about. It might be cold, but that was because fires were not usually lit in this part of the house. There might be an odd, sour smell in the air, but that was nothing that a good airing wouldn’t soon fix. And it might feel a little strange and old – but that was no surprise, as this part of the house had been built well over three hundred years ago.

      A small light glinting a little way along the passage made her stop short for a moment, her heart thumping. But no sooner had she halted than she realised it was just the reflection of her own candle in an old looking glass. She shook her head at herself: she was being jumpy and silly.

      ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts,’ she muttered, as she went on, feeling colder than ever, as the wind howled louder outside.

      Halfway along the corridor, she glimpsed something lying on the floor, and realised it was Lizzie’s duster. She reached down to pick it up, and as she did so, she felt a sudden rush of air that made her skin bristle. It was ice cold.

      Nothing more than a window left open somewhere, she thought – but then she heard something else. It was a sound – quite loud and unmistakable in this empty, dark, creaking part of the house. The hollow, echoing pad of footsteps. Footsteps that were moving slowly but purposefully towards her along the corridor, growing louder and louder all the time.

      It was a trick – it had to be. ‘Charlie, I know it’s you!’ she called. ‘Come out and stop playing the fool!’

      But there was no reply, no answering snigger. Instead, the footsteps just kept coming towards her along the passageway – slow and heavy. Too heavy to be the steps of a young under-footman. Her chest tightened.

      ‘If this is your idea of a stupid joke . . .’ she began, but the words seemed to choke her, and fell away.

      As she stared, she saw to her horror that a dark shape was moving steadily towards her. A tall, billowing, unearthly shadow, stretched into the shape of a human figure, advancing closer and closer along the wall.

      A bitter cold wind swept over her. Every instinct was screaming at her to run, but she seemed to be frozen to the ground.

      The shadow stretched towards her – a long, thin, black shape like an arm, reaching, reaching, until it could almost touch her.

      Then the candle suddenly snuffed out, and in the icy darkness, Tilly screamed.

CHAPTER TWO

      ‘We shall be delighted to welcome our special guests to the first Sinclair’s New Year’s Eve Ball.’ Mr Sinclair’s voice – clear and strong, with a hint of American twang – rang out across the Press Club Room at Sinclair’s, London’s most famous department store. ‘I intend this new event to become a regular fixture of London’s social calendar.’

      It was a few days before Christmas, and outside, the London streets were very cold, the first flakes of snow beginning to fall from a heavy grey sky. Inside, the wood-panelled room was warm and brightly lit, and crowded with journalists, all of them listening intently to Mr Sinclair. A thick cloud of cigar smoke hung above their heads, blending with the rich aroma of Sinclair’s at Christmas. It was the warm smell of cinnamon and toffee and spiced oranges, the sharp metallic tang of tinsel and silver paper – and something else too, something more difficult to identify: the tingling scent of anticipation.

      From where he stood at the very back of the room, Billy Parker, the youngest Sinclair’s office boy, could sense a buzz of excitement in the air. All around him people busily scribbled down Mr Sinclair’s words in their notebooks, whilst at the front, several photographers with cameras and tripods were jostling for position, each hoping to get the perfect shot of the man himself.

      Of course, this scene was not exactly an unusual one. Ever since the news had first broken that New York millionaire Edward Sinclair would be coming to London to open the city’s finest department store, he had instantly become the darling of the press – and really, Billy thought, it was little wonder. After all, Mr Sinclair always seemed to be planning some extraordinary new scheme, from ballet performances in the roof garden, to a showing of one of the new ‘moving pictures’ in the Exhibition Hall. He was frequently to be seen at London’s most exclusive social gatherings, attending the first night of a fashionable new West End show, or dining at the best table in one of the city’s finest restaurants. What was more, his department store was a place where sensational and dramatic things seemed to happen. Already, Sinclair’s had seen everything from the daring robbery of precious jewels and priceless paintings to (it was rumoured) a narrow escape from a bomb concealed in the store’s famous golden clock. In less than a year, Mr Sinclair had given the press a great deal to write about.

      But it wasn’t only the journalists who were endlessly fascinated by the debonair department store owner, Billy reflected, as he craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the elegant figure – immaculate as always, right down to the perfect orchid in his button hole. They might have been working for him for many months, but Mr Sinclair’s own staff still speculated about their employer just as much as ever. Although he could be seen at the store almost every day, although his photograph appeared most weeks in the society pages of the illustrated papers, Billy thought now that there was still an awful lot that they did not know about the man they called ‘the Captain’.

      ‘Of course, as you know, gentlemen – I do beg your pardon, ma’am, gentlemen and ladies,’ Mr Sinclair was saying, with a courtly bow in the direction of the single female journalist in the room. ‘As you know, we don’t do things in any ordinary, commonplace way here at Sinclair’s – so you may be sure that this will be no ordinary or commonplace entertainment. We shall be welcoming in 1910 in truly spectacular style – is that not so, Monsieur Chevalier?’

      He turned to the man standing beside him: a smartly dressed gentleman with a pointed black beard. ‘Indeed we will,’ said the gentleman, speaking with a strong French accent. ‘I am honoured – most honoured – to be launching my new scent, Midnight Peacock, at the wonderful Sinclair’s. What finer setting for a fête unlike anything we have