Julius and the Soulcatcher (6 page)

Julius flinched. He stared at the steps leading up to the front door, pretending not to have heard, or at least not to have been struck by the words. It was as if a bee had stung him and he was impatient for the pain to come so he would know how strong the venom was.

He swayed—as if the toxin was sliding into his veins. He recalled the time outside the bookshop six months earlier, when he found out that Mr Flynn was not his father. Never had been. Never would be. The disappointment had stung all the more because he had been so certain it was true. But it wasn't, and
the fact that it wasn't left an ache where the certainty once was.

And now Mr Flynn had made Emily his legal daughter, just like that—and had not even thought to tell him. The venom took hold of Julius—leaching into his organs. He gripped the bar of the gate.

‘I try to visit as often as I can,' said Mr Flynn. ‘She's a handful though. Mrs Trevelyan's is the second establishment she's been at in six months. Whenever I visit I have to listen to reports of all the shenanigans she's been up to.' Mr Flynn paused and looked at the steps as if they were a mountain he was reluctant to climb.

‘I'm sorry, Julius,' he said. ‘I should have told you. I didn't think.'

‘That's all right,' said Julius.

‘It's a legal requirement, so I can make decisions about her education and the legacy the Watchmakers donated to her.'

‘We'd best ring the bell, Mr Flynn.'

‘Yes. Let's get it over with.'

Mr Flynn took the steps three at a time and tapped the brass doorknocker. Julius climbed slowly after him. Mr Flynn removed his top hat and smoothed his hair.

The door was opened by a maid, whose face lit up in welcome. ‘Mr Flynn,' she said, ‘We haven't seen you in more than an age. Mrs Trevelyan was starting to fret.'

Julius watched, stunned, as Mr Flynn's cheeks bloomed like a red rosebud opening its petals.

‘Well, I'm here now,' said Mr Flynn. ‘Is everything all right?'

‘Why, yes. Why shouldn't it be?' said the maid, with a wide-eyed look in anticipation of calamity.

‘Oh, no reason.'

The maid noticed Julius and ran her eyes over him as if she were wrapping him in ribbons. ‘And who's the young gentleman?'

‘Julius Higgins, a friend of Miss Emily. We've come to call.'

‘You'd better come in, kind sirs,' she said. ‘I'll fetch Mrs Trevelyan.' She scampered away across the hall, with her skirts gathered up in front to give her feet full rein.

Mr Flynn cleared his throat awkwardly and studied the tiles at his feet. Julius pulled off his mittens.

There were two stairways curving up around the walls of the grand entrance hall. Julius looked up the three or four storeys to see girls' faces staring at him over the banisters. He unbuttoned his coat and removed his hat. The faces began animated discussions with one another. More faces appeared. Soon, most of the banister space on the third landing and some of the fourth was lined with faces of young ladies, all looking down at Julius as he looked up at them.

‘Mr Flynn, it is indeed an honour,' Julius heard
someone say in a Scottish Highland accent. Suddenly, all the faces disappeared and the babble ceased.

Julius turned to see a tall, strikingly handsome woman of about forty. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head. She was advancing towards Mr Flynn with an outstretched hand of welcome, but she stopped when she saw Julius.

Her spectacles fell from her nose and hung on their gold chain across her large bosom as she stared in horror.

Julius stared back in confusion.

What the bloody hell have you done, Higgins?

‘Mr Flynn,' said the woman, her face pretending to smile. ‘If you would be so kind as to come into my study, and bring the…
ahem
…young gentleman with you.'

She marched away, with her head held as high as her neck could stretch.

Julius looked to Mr Flynn for an answer, but he was still studying the tiles at his feet.

‘Yes, Mrs Trevelyan,' he said, and fell into step behind her.

When Mr Flynn and Julius stepped into Mrs Trevelyan's study, she was standing to attention, holding the door and patting away an imagined irregularity in her hair. The room was an ornately decorated study and parlour. Paintings of regimental charges hung on the walls, interspersed with swords
and daggers. Two statuettes of horses stood on the mantel and a bronze reproduction the Dying Gaul had pride of place on her desk. The raised knee of the naked warrior was worn shiny. Julius imagined it was from decades of schoolgirls stroking it for luck while awaiting a telling off.

‘Please, take a seat, Mr Flynn,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

Mr Flynn sat obediently in one of the parlour chairs. Julius sat in another. Mrs Trevelyan lowered herself gracefully into a chair opposite them and adjusted the gold chain across her bosom until it hung just right.

‘As you know, Mr Flynn,' she said, ‘you are always welcome here,
always
. But I must insist—' She cast a glance towards Julius. ‘I must insist that no young gentlemen of a certain age accompany you in future. It may cause—how can I put it?—undue disturbances among my young ladies.'

Mr Flynn looked at Julius. ‘Mrs Trevelyan, I can assure you that Master Higgins is a gentleman to his bootlaces. The soul of decorum and conduct and would never, er—'

‘I am sure you are correct, Mr Flynn. I have no doubt of your judgment in this matter. It is not the young gentleman's conduct about which I am concerned.'

‘Oh, no?' said Mr Flynn.

‘No,' said Mrs Trevelyan. ‘It is just that, how can I
put it? My young ladies do not often leave the academy. They do not mix with young gentlemen of their own age. I have a duty to their parents and…
ahem
…guardians to see to their welfare and moral development. A well-presented young gentleman might—how shall I put it?—lead to
agitation
in my young ladies. I'm sure you understand, Mr Flynn.'

‘Oh, indeed I do, Mrs Trevelyan,' said Mr Flynn. ‘Forgive me, I should have considered the matter before I brought young Julius.'

‘No apologies are necessary, Mr Flynn. I see that you appreciate my situation and will be guided accordingly in the future. Military men are always to be depended upon, I find.'

‘Oh, I'm not a military man, Mrs Trevelyan. I never had that honour,' said Mr Flynn, in a suitably regretful tone.

‘No? You do surprise me. You have such a regimental bearing. I took you to be late of the Irish Fusiliers.'

Mr Flynn's face bloomed red again.

‘My late husband, as you know, Colonel Trevelyan, of the Cameron Highlanders,' said Mrs Trevelyan, pointing to a portrait in a gold-leafed oval frame, ‘often said to me, “Bonnie, if you weren't my wife, I'd make you a Major.”'

‘Indeed,' said Mr Flynn.

‘I kept the officers in line for the colonel when
we were stationed in Gibraltar. A kind heart and firm hand was what they needed. Such fine young men. Far away from home, so full of high spirits.' Mrs Trevelyan appeared to lose herself to her memories. She sighed as she looked at the pictures and trophies on the walls.

Mr Flynn pulled at his collar as if it were choking him. ‘And how is Emily?' he asked.

‘Emily?' said Mrs Trevelyan, coming back to the present. ‘Such a dear girl. She exhibits so many possibilities. However, she does continue to be an unfortunate influence on my young ladies. They follow her in every way, Mr Flynn.'

‘Oh, I see.'

‘They have taken to calling out “oi” to one another, like barrow boys at a bare-knuckle bout. Oh, no offence, Mr Flynn. I'm sure your bouts are of a highly refined variety.'

‘Indeed they are, Mrs Trevelyan.'

‘Unfortunately, dear Emily has what can only be described as leadership qualities,' said Mrs Trevelyan.

‘I see. And that is to be
dis
couraged?' said Mr Flynn.

‘Indeed. It is most
un
becoming.'

‘But I'm sure, Mrs Trevelyan, that you have leadership qualities yourself. Qualities sufficient to command a regiment, that the late colonel—forgive me for being so bold—did not find disagreeable,' said Mr Flynn.

It was Mrs Trevelyan's turn to blush. She smiled and twirled the arm of her spectacles between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Oh, Mr Flynn. How gallant you are. Yes, indeed. I am sure you are correct. I have the highest regard for your judgment in all things, as you know. If Emily were to marry a military man her qualities might be put to good use. But, I fear, any other eligible young man might find her somewhat confronting.'

Julius felt a tickling on he cheeks. He knew he was blushing, but he wasn't sure why. He hoped Mr Flynn and Mrs Trevelyan didn't notice.

Just then a scream rang out from the hallway. Julius jumped.

‘One of the young ladies, getting caned?' said Mr Flynn.

‘Certainly not,' said Mrs Trevelyan, standing to attention. ‘My young ladies receive lines for their transgressions.'

The scream rang out again. Mrs Trevelyan hurried to the door and opened it. Another scream—louder this time—was followed by much clattering and banging.

‘Allow me,' said Mr Flynn. He hurried past before Mrs Trevelyan could object. Julius followed close behind. In four seconds they were at the foot of the stairs, where a young kitchen maid was screaming in terror.

Emily ran down the stairs behind them, followed by other schoolgirls. ‘Wot's the matter, Nell?' she asked.

‘There's a bleeding flower in the kitchen, miss. It's trying to kill us all.'

‘What is this nonsense?' said Mrs Trevelyan.

Mr Flynn looked at Julius.

Cripes, Higgins. It's Tock's orchid.

‘Emily, where's the kitchen,' said Mr Flynn, above the screaming.

‘This way,' she shouted, and ran along the corridor beside the stairs.

Julius and Mr Flynn followed. The cacophony of cries and clattering pans grew louder as they ran down a flight of stairs and into the kitchen.

Julius stared at the chaos through a fog of flour.

Clara, the assistant cook who had let Emily in the night before, stood in the middle of it all. She was swinging a broom around her head while a fat woman in a cook's bonnet was wailing and throwing anything she could get hold of.

‘Look, over there,' said Mr Flynn.

Something scurried along a shelf of jars. It flashed past too quickly for Julius to see clearly what it was. Clara used her broom as a lance to stab at it. Jars fell to the flagstones, shattering and sending up clouds of cinnamon and nutmeg.

Emily, who had worked her way into the middle of the mayhem, picked up a meat-tenderising mallet
and held it ready as Julius and Mr Flynn ran past her.

The scurrying thing leapt from the shelf to the row of bells above the back door, then ran across them, ringing them as it went.

‘What in Heaven's name is going on?' bellowed Mrs Trevelyan, from halfway down the stairs.

Everyone stopped and looked up.

‘It's a wild orchid, Mrs Trevelyan,' called out Clara. ‘It climbed out of its pot and went for poor Nell.'

‘It's not right. It's not right,' screamed the fat cook. Her words were muffled by the large copper pot she had put over her head as a helmet.

The orchid stopped at the last bell long enough for Julius to see it properly. It was the orchid he had given to Emily. The tendrils that had hung down onto the soil now flicked around like whips.

‘We need something to catch it in,' said Mr Flynn.

Julius looked around. It was impossible to find anything in the chaos. Wooden spoons were strewn across the kitchen table and a pot of soup had tipped over on the range, making it hiss and spit and sending up more steam than the chimney could hold.

‘Here, catch,' shouted Emily.

Julius caught the sieve she threw at him.

Clara poked the orchid off the last bell with a broom. It fell into the corner and, running on its tendril legs, it made for the space under the dresser.
The meat-tenderising mallet flew through the air, just missing Julius's ear. It smashed into the floor in front of the orchid, stopping it for an instant. Julius leapt at it with the sieve.

‘Got you!'

He lay over the sieve, holding it down while the orchid fought to escape.

‘It's not right. It's not right,' shouted the cook.

The kitchen became still but for the flour and cinnamon and nutmeg settling like fairy dust around them.

Mrs Trevelyan pulled the pot off the cook's head and placed it on the table.

‘Calm yourself, Cook,' she said.

‘Could I trouble you for a jar, Mrs Trevelyan?' said Mr Flynn, with impeccable composure.

‘Why, yes, of course, Mr Flynn,' she said.

Clara reached for a jar of bay leaves and tipped them out on the draining board.

‘Thank you,' said Mr Flynn, barely looking at the assistant cook who was covered in flour. ‘Julius, when I give the word, lift the sieve and I'll nab it. Stand back, ladies.'

Under the wire mesh, the orchid hissed and whipped, madly lashing its tendrils.

‘Now,' said Mr Flynn.

Julius snatched up the sieve and used it as a shield while Mr Flynn slammed the open end of the jar over
the orchid, severing two tendrils.

Two minutes later they all stood around the table staring at the jar into which the imprisoned orchid was squashed like a pickled cabbage. Its tendrils ran across the glass as if searching for a crack to break through. A cluster of schoolgirls stared from the kitchen doorway—their mouths forming perfect letter ‘O's.

‘Well…' said Mrs Trevelyan, as if the silence that followed spoke for itself.

‘It was Emily what left that thing in the kitchen,' said the cook, her face wobbling with indignation.

‘Me? I ain't done naffing,' said Emily. ‘I didn't know it was going to be
that
sort of surprise. I didn't fink it—'