Read Online The Secrets of Drearcliff Grange School by Kim Newman - Free Book Online Page B

well after Lights Out, the Moth Club crept along the corridor. They presented strange figures.
    They reasoned that if their foes were
hooded
, they must be
masked
.
    Born and raised in theatres and naturally quick with a needle, Light Fingers was an Old Reliable for the Drearcliff Ballet Club, the Viola Dramatic Society, the Arthur Wing Pinero Players (who existed thanks to a bequest from an Old Girl which maintained the Drearcliff Playhouse in a state of acceptable plushness – on the condition that the school mount annual productions of a work by the author of
The Gay Lord Quex
and
The Second Mrs Tanqueray
), the Ragged Revue and the Christmas Mummers. For every play, recital or presentation, Light Fingers made or altered costumes to order. Therefore, she had knowledge of and free access to the catacombs under the Playhouse. Here, props, scenery and costumes – some dating to the last century – were stored. Smudge said the storage cellars were haunted by a Viola Fifth who foolishly drowned herself while taking the role of Ophelia too seriously in the ’08 Senior Production of Bowdler’s
Hamlet
. The theatrical spectre purportedly dripped on the floor and wailed her mad scene among hanging doublets and hose. Light Fingers was not afraid of such silly-goose ghosts.
    There were no lessons on Saturday afternoons. Girls were expected to pursue their
enthusiasms
. Having raided the catacombs for raw materials, Light Fingers worked in their cell – prickling somewhat at the many and contradictory suggestions from her ‘customers’ – to run up ensembles suitable for the Moth Club’s secret missions.
    Now, Amy, Frecks and Light Fingers wore wood-nymph body stockings from some forgotten sylvan ballet, tight-fitting balaclava helmets from an unsuccessful dramatic recital of
The Charge of the Light Brigade
, sturdy dance pumps, and lightweight cloaks passed down through generations of ‘courtiers, attendants, guards, clowns, & co.’. The costumes were set off by moth-shaped domino masks, with feathery pipe-cleaner antennae and trailing wings which covered their lower faces. The cloaks, masks and body stockings were appropriate for their code-name species: Kentish Glory was a brownish rust, Willow Ermine white with small black dots and Large Dark Prominent speckled grey-brown.
    Light Fingers silently opened the door and the Moth Club slipped into Inchfawn’s cell.
    As they entered, someone stirred. It was Smudge. She caught sight of the masked intruders in the moonlight and shoved the edge of her sheet to her mouth.
    For a moment, Amy – Kentish Glory – fought panic. She didn’t know which of the three sleeping Thirds was their quarry. Then she saw two pairs of spectacles neatly folded on a small table by one of the cots.
    The Moth Club laid hands on Inchfawn.
    Amy pressed a face flannel into the girl’s mouth. Inchfawn was awake, but too terrified to struggle.
    Smudge mumbled a quarter-hearted protest. Frecks raised a finger to her mask-covered mouth. Smudge buried herself under the bedclothes.
    Between them, the Moth Club got Inchfawn cocooned in a sheet and carried out of the cell. The other Thirds didn’t even wake up. Smudge could tell them what had happened. She’d exaggerate, of course – and spread lurid tales of deaths-head monsters spiriting Inchfawn away to glut vampirish thirsts. Frightening rumours about the Moth Club might serve a purpose. Wrong-doers
should
be afraid of them.
    They carried their muffled burden up the backstairs. Having hold of Inchfawn’s head-and-shoulders end, Frecks bumped the bundled-up bonce against walls and doors a little more than was strictly necessary. A door which should have been locked wasn’t. Through this, they reached the flat roof. The cloud had cleared off for once. A full moon bathed Old House in pale light. Perfect for nocturnal lepidoptera. Chimney stacks threw stark, deep shadows.
    The scene had been prepared. Light Fingers’ rocking chair was tipped against