‘Zoe,’ replied Davie soberly. ‘You’ll want to tell Zoe.’
‘If it’s about the people she’s been hanging out with, then surely she should know, shouldn’t she?’
‘She should, but she can’t.’ He leant across the table and took my hand, which had been moving instinctively towards the file. His grasp was tighter than yesterday, but this time I could sense no hidden layers of meaning. ‘You know how fond Iam of Zoe, but… she’s impulsive, she wears her heart on her sleeve. If she really likes this guy, she’ll definitely say something to him.’
‘Something about what, Davie?’ I repeated tensely. I couldn’t promise to keep something secret if I didn’t even know what it was.
I saw the tussle going on behind his eyes, until at last he let go of my hand and slid the topmost pile of documents aside to reveal the file. ‘A couple of weeks ago I took over one of Cassidy’s articles,’ he began, flipping back the ragged, light blue cover. ‘She was getting too busy with her dissertation and wanted to take a step back from the newspaper. I offered to edit her article and polish it up for publication.’
‘Which is Davie for rewriting it, I suppose?’
He grinned wryly. ‘You could say that. It was about the tradition of student clubs at Cambridge. Cass had made an intriguing start, but her research was superficial and–without wanting to be mean–sloppy. I’ll never understand why some people think the ability to use Google qualifies you to be a journalist…’
‘Davie,’ I interrupted firmly.
He sighed. ‘Right. Well, anyway, I got stuck back into the research. I started poking around, digging up dirt about the big, established secret societies, I’m sure you know the ones: the Apostles, the Ferrets, the Pitt Club and so on. I read through old reports, pored over articles, scanned through any records I could find in the university archives. A lot of it was old news. These societies often tend to go a bit overboard–they make newbies jump through all sorts of hoops, take part in embarrassing rituals, you know the drill. But… I stumbled across a few things that piqued my curiosity. And as you know, I do tend to get a bit obsessed with stuff like that.’
‘You don’t say.’ I suppressed a grin, although I could feel my whole body tensing eagerly as he spoke.
‘So I did a bit more research. I went to the National Archives in London and nosed around in some of their really old files.’ Wetting his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, he leant in over the table again and lowered his voice. ‘For some time now, there have been rumours circulating of a secret society that seems to have been connected to Cambridge for over a century.’
I frowned, confused. ‘Okay, but you just said it yourself: there are tons of clubs like that at Cambridge.’ Not that I’d ever met anybody in one, but all of us were aware of their existence. For many students, joining one of these exclusive societies was a lifelong dream. Induction into their inner circles, it was rumoured, practically guaranteed a broad network of alumni who could be called upon to help members after graduation. Personally, I knew from the very beginning that I didn’t want to get mixed up in an organisation like that. Those groups were all about money and power, and although they were relatively small spotlights, they still drew clear distinctions between light and shadow. It was all about positioning, and I was painfully aware that people like me would never be allowed into the light. Close as I might stand, I was always in darkness.
Davie nodded. ‘Yeah, but this one… isn’t affiliated to the university. It sounds more like it’s popped up at various universities across the country, sort of in cycles. It started more than a century ago, when the same inscription began appearing on memorials, the same motif on clothes worn by students at various institutions, the same name cropping up in connection with alumni. They call themselves the League of Starlings.’ He arched his eyebrows, obviously waiting for the penny to drop.
It did. Very slowly, reluctantly, because it was all so absurd. ‘Starlings as in…Sturnus vulgaris?’
Davie leant back with a nod, folding his arms.
I could tell he was serious, but I couldn’t bring myself to feel the same. The mere memory of the password prompted a smirk I fought to suppress. ‘Isn’t this all a bit silly?’ I asked slowly. ‘If you were trying to set up a big-shot secret society, wouldn’t you choose an animal that’s a bit more impressive? The League of Lions, or something?’
Davie’s mouth didn’t even twitch. ‘This isn’t a joke, Mabel. And what they call themselves is irrelevant. It’s what theydo.’
‘Which is?’ I asked sceptically. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I could respect any secret society that deliberately compared its members to a bunch of harmless birds.
‘If you believe the rumours, they’ve got quite a rap sheet. Theft, vandalism, plus various other crimes that were never officially solved, even when it sounds like there was clear evidence. It’s like they can do whatever they want, simply because they’re in the wealthiest two per cent.’
‘Okay… and what does all that have to do with us?’
A draught came rattling through the window. ‘I think they’re back,’ said Davie, his voice so guttural that for a moment I couldn’t tell why I was shivering.
I fought to keep the feeling at bay, refusing to let myself be intimidated by that sort of cheap scare. Real things had happened in my life: dark, tragic, sad things. I wasn’t going to let myself be cowed by some silly urban legend.
‘The starlings have flown in, you mean?’ I asked, keeping my face deadpan.
Davie’s eyes darkened. ‘Mabel.’
I forced a grin. ‘Fine. What makes you so sure?’
‘I was at the pub the other day. Overdid it a bit, to be honest–I was pretty drunk at one point. I went outside to find a quiet corner, thought I might have to… well, you know…’ He gestured. ‘Anyway, there were these two lads chatting. One of them, a blond guy, sprayed something on the wall.’ Davie flipped through the file and slid a photograph towards me. The lamplight had painted the bricks yellow, making the dark lines even more apparent. I was no biologist, but even I recognised what it was: a bird with a leafy twig in its beak.
‘Okay… and you think this is evidence that the two lads belong to some ancient organisation? All because they graffitied a bird onto the wall? Probably just reliving the glory days of their Art A-level.’
Davie reached again into the file and took out a sheaf of photographs. Some were blurry, others sharp, but all were unmistakeable: each was of the same motif. The same bird in the same pose with the same twig in its beak. My smile grew leaden at the corners of my mouth, dragging them downwards.
‘When you trace the group, this image keeps cropping up.’ Davie tapped one of the photos, which depicted the bird on a door–unless I was very much mistaken, it was the door of a church.
A face appeared in my head, but I pushed it resolutely aside. I didn’t want to to think it. I didn’t want to understand it. Any of it. ‘What makes you think Ashton’s one of them?’
