The Music Box: Chapter Seven

Startled, Emily tore her eyes from the contraption and looked at Mr Crouch. He stood so still that she would swear his lips had never moved. Yet she had heard him speak to her quite clearly.

She finally found her voice. “Mr Crouch”, she scratched out meekly. “How do you know my name?”

“Well, Miss Button, how is it you have come to know mine?”

Emily bit her tongue, wary that many possible answers to that question were likely to offend.

“Well Mr Crouch, I heard it from a friend.”

Emily remembered too late that Tabitha had sworn her to secrecy, but told herself Tabitha just meant nobody else was to know, whereas of course Mr Crouch already knew whether or not she had been here.

“I see, a friend. You had never heard of me before then?”

Emily wasn’t sure what to say. She was getting so tangled up in her widening web of fibs she decided she would try telling the truth, albeit carefully.

“Well,” she drew out, “some of the children have made up some stories about you, which I know can’t be true, but it does mean that I have heard of you that way.”

“And what sort of stories, pray tell, would these be?”

Mr Crouch was now looking directly at Emily. His gaze seemed to use his sharp nose to spear its way deep inside her and she was unable to tear her own eyes away from his, even though she felt he was reading far too much there.

“Oh just silly things that I don’t even really remember.”

“I see.”

Emily noted this was the second time he had said this in a queer kind of way, and felt with a shudder that whereas most people used it as an expression, Mr Crouch really could ‘see’ what she was saying. She told herself she must be very careful about what she allowed to come to her mind and what pictures she drew on to answer his questions, for she feared giving too much away.

She was afraid of speaking out of turn, but more afraid of where his questions might go, so blurted out her question again.

“You still haven’t said how you knew my name, Mr Crouch.”

“I was told you might come and see me,” he said, his long, bony fingers entwining as his palms rubbed together, “by someone we both know quite well.”

“Tabitha?” It had jumped out before she could help herself.

“Mmmmm,” Mr Crouch murmured, but Emily could not quite make out whether this was indeed an affirmation or he had simply slipped into his own thoughts.

Emily couldn’t bear the silence that followed, and blurted out another thing that had been on her mind.

“And why did you say you were expecting me?”

“Hmmm? Oh, we can get to that later. Oh dear, I’m being a terrible host, I’m yet to even offer you a drink. A cup of tea?”

A cup of tea? What a strange thing to offer. As much as she liked to think of herself as far more grown up than her 11 years might suggest, Emily still thought it very unusual. But then she didn’t imagine Mr Crouch had many guests, particularly young guests, so such matters were no doubt outside his understanding. She felt a pang of sympathy for him then. Maybe he wasn’t the ogre he was made out to be, was simply the victim of too much gossip and storytelling, Chinese whispers that turned the meaningless to the monstrous.

“Um, yes please, that would be most lovely.”

Emily put on her best grown-up voice again, feeling the offer of tea showed Mr Crouch was treating her as an equal.

“Just excuse me one moment, I’ll be right back.”

Mr Crouch glided in his seemingly weightless way over to the stairs, his head soon disappearing and the rest of his body swallowed step by creaky step.