by Mez Blume
My heart jumped into my throat. I reached out and pulled Dobbs closer to whisper in his ear. “Don’t look now, but there’s a man across the street. Do you recognise him?”
Dobbs pretended to bend down and lace up his shoe, in the meantime managing a glance towards the still, watching figure.
He stood up and leaned in close for Imogen and me to hear. “I don’t know ‘im, but I know of ‘im. Name’s Tobias Wix.”
“Tobias Wix?” Imogen shot a glance over Dobbs’s head. “What’s that ape doing here? You don’t think he’s following us?”
“”Ow do you two know ‘im?” Dobbs asked in a tone of surprise.
“The night we met you, he tried to steal Imogen’s purse,” I explained. “Not the best introduction. Let’s talk inside the gate,” I urged, pushing it open.
I felt a little better with the gate between us and Wix, but I could still feel his invisible eyes watching. Betsy could too. She kept up her deep-throated rumbling.
“What do you know about him?” I asked Dobbs.
“Not much. He’s known in unsav’ry circles as ‘the Gargoyle’.”
“I can see why,” Imogen muttered.
Dobbs shook his head. “Not on account of his looks. It’s cos he’s done time for burglin’ churches. Rumour is ‘e used to travel with the circus as a trapeze flyer. Got a real head for heights wot ‘elps ‘im climb up church towers, see. ‘E ‘angs off ‘em just like an ol’ stone gargoyle. And ‘e’s got the strength to climb back down again with church valuables. You know–” He scratched his head. “Candlesticks and the like.”
“The Gargoyle,” I mouthed with a quick glance across the street. Yes, I could just about picture that figure scaling a church tower, monkey-like; the thought made me shiver. But, in an attempt to reassure myself as much as Imogen, I said, “See, Im. He’s probably just waiting to go burgle a church. I doubt he even remembers us.”
“Either way,” Dobbs said, standing to his full height, “you don’t need to worry. I’ll be ‘ere to look after you tomorrow. Only...” He snapped his fingers. “I forgot. Bess ‘n’ me is back to shoe blackin’ in the morning. Inspector’s orders. But I can come just after,” he added eagerly.
Imogen huffed. “We can leave the house by ourselves, you know.”
Dobbs’s eyes dropped. “Course you can, if you like.” He rubbed his nose with his sleeve. “Just thought, as we’re in this mystery-solvin’ tomfoolery togever, I might…” he trailed off, turning as if to go.
“Dobbs,” I blurted. He turned around hopefully. “I thought I’d go looking for my notebook tomorrow in the daylight. You know, retrace our steps from this morning. It would be really great if you could help, seeing as you’ll remember the roads better than I will.”
He stood upright and made a saluting gesture. “You can count on me, Miss. I’ll be ‘ere when the clock strikes noon.”
As soon as he closed the gate behind him, Imogen grabbed my arm. “Come on, Katie. Let’s not hang around to find out what that gargoyle person is up to. Especially now our bodyguard has gone,” she added with a roll of her eyes.
When we were safe in our room, I peered out the dormer window. “He’s gone,” I announced with huge relief. Despite what I’d said before, I could not help feeling that Wix’s appearance outside our lodgings was more than just coincidence.
17
A Hairy Situation
From his city roost, the rooster crowed loud and clear. I opened one eye, surprised to find pale light spilling in through our little dormer window. I hadn’t slept well. Dozens of questions about Gabriel Webb, the magic painting hanging in St. Paul’s and the disturbing appearance of Wix outside the hostel had churned around in my head for what felt like hours until I finally fell into a fitful sleep.
Reluctantly opening the other eye, I tossed off the blanket and dragged myself out of bed and over to the window.
“Where’s all that light coming from?” Imogen groaned, pulling the blanket up over her eyes.
I peered out across the chimney pots, glistening in the morning mist. Most of the snow had melted off the rooftops. The air looked cleaner now after yesterday’s rain, and somewhere behind a veil of white mist, the sun was making a valiant effort to shine through. The pigeons on the window ledge were making the most of its rays, happily cooing as they preened their feathers. That’s just what I need to clear my head, I thought. Fresh air.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I said brightly.
“Ugh,” was the reply from under the blanket. But after some coaxing, Imogen got up. We dressed in our old charity clothes, ready to greet our first sunny, Victorian winter’s day.
Covent Garden Market teemed with more activity than ever; even the sun’s half-hearted rays had brought the crowds out in double. Imogen linked her arm through mine, and together we strolled past the market stalls, newspaper boys, flower girls with their shoulders draped in greenery, each shouting to be heard over the others.
I barely heard a single one of them. The brisk, sunny air was doing its magic. My mind felt less rusty now as it turned over all our discoveries from the day before.
“What I don’t understand,” I mused out loud, “is how Phineas didn’t recognise the On the Steps of St. Paul’s as his brother’s. He must have seen it before. Do you think it’s possible he just forgot about it?”
I glanced at Imogen. She clearly hadn’t heard a single word I’d said. Her attention was turned longingly towards the market stalls piled high with fresh-baked bread, cheeses, and steaming pies.
“I’m so hungry, Katie,” she groaned. “I honestly don’t think I can bear to eat another one of those hard buns from the hostel. They just make me hungrier than I was before eating them.”
I couldn’t disagree. I had been grateful for the buns at the start of each day, but they were hardly manna from heaven.
I stood still, thinking. “There must be some way we can make a little money. Besides, we need to pay for our room at some point.” I bit my lip, my eyes roving the market for some inspiration.
Meanwhile, Imogen plopped down on a little stool beside a Punch and Judy theatre.
“I’d sell my hair for a hunk of cheese right now.”
“Really?” I asked. I had just spotted a wagon parked outside the pavilion, the sign over its curtained door hand-painted with the words WE BUY LADIES’ HAIR.
“I swear I would.”
“Well here’s your chance. Look.”
It had only been a joke, but, turning to look, Imogen got to her feet. “I have been considering shorter hair.” And she made off towards the wagon.
“Im, wait!” By the time I caught up to her through the chock-a-block maze of wagons and carts, it was too late. She’d climbed the steps of the wagon and disappeared behind the curtain. I waited, horrible images of giant shears and a hairless Imogen haunting my mind.
I was wondering what I should do when I heard hysterical laughter behind me. I spun to see who was making the commotion and found myself facing a makeshift shed. “Oh,” I said, remembering Dobbs’s description of his sleeping quarters. “I bet…”
I approached the half-open stall door and stuck my head inside. The laughter, it turned out, had been the braying of a mule.
“Hello, Samson,” I said, letting the mule sniff my hand before reaching up to stroke his stiff ears. “I’m Katie. We have a mutual friend. Your flatmate, Arty Dobbs.”
Samson let out an ear-splitting bray.
“Shush up, ya one-eyed imbecile!” A drunken, tattily dressed old man stumbled over and kicked the side of the shed.
“It was my fault,” I said as the man slid his back down the side of the shed until he lay on the ground with an upturned bottle held to his lips.
Full of indignation, I patted Samson’s nose and gave him a reassuring smile. “Never mind. If anyone’s an imbecile–”
“Katie?” I whirled around. The hair wagon’s curtain was pulled back and Imogen was looking for me in the crowd. She spotted me and
ran over. “What do you think?” she asked, shaking out her now chin-length blonde hair. The barber, still holding the long braid he’d recently snipped from Imogen’s head, appeared behind her. “There you are, Miss.” He held out his hand and dropped several gold coins into Imogen’s palms. “Three sovereigns.”
Imogen dropped the coins into her coin purse and patted it with satisfaction.
“How much is that worth?” I asked, relieved she had come out of the wagon in one piece.
“Not sure exactly,” she answered. “But there was a woman in there with her daughter whose hair got only two sovereigns, and she said they’d take it and buy enough wool and boots to dress her seven children.”
I gawked.
“I think it’s safe to say we can afford to pay the Misses Turvey and buy a substantial feast with three sovereigns.”
“You’re the mathematics whiz. My only request is apples,” I said as Imogen took my arm and yanked me towards the food stalls.
The first thing she did was buy a basket from one of the many ladies balancing stacks of them on their heads. She proceeded to fill it with hot rolls, a giant chunk of cheese, dried apricots, baked potatoes, a jar of blackberry preserves and two bouquets of flowers, one for the Misses Turvey and the other for Mrs. Janklow to thank her for Christmas dinner. Finally, I picked out three of the biggest apples I could find.
“This is going to be the beggar’s feast of a lifetime,” Imogen said, happily biting into a plump apricot and handing another to me. “Though,” she rolled her eyes, “I suspect we won’t have long to eat it before Dobbs turns up wanting to chaperone us.”
“He’s not coming ‘til noon,” I said, then thought. “What time is it anyway?”
“Don’t know. But that’s just what we need.” Imogen gave her coin purse a shake. “A watch.” She looked around. “Excuse me. Yes, you.” She spoke to one of the young men selling newspapers. “Any idea where I can buy a watch for a decent price?”
The young man removed his cap and scratched his head. “I know the place, Miss. There’s a watchmaker on Cecil Court. Carry on down Long Acre, hang a left on St Martin’s Lane. You’ll find the place on your right in a wink.”
Before setting off for the watchmaker, I asked Imogen to wait for me while I ran back to the shed. The gruff old man snored on the ground, so I went ahead and fed Samson all three apples.
“What was that about?” Imogen asked through a mouthful of cheese when I re-joined her.
“Just a gift for a friend.”
She shrugged, and we set off down Long Acre, basking in the pale winter sunlight and the joy of sweet, juicy apricots as we walked. Just as the paper boy had promised, we found Cecil Court in no time, a narrow alley lined with shops and hanging signs.
“Ah. That must be the one.” Imogen pointed at an iron sign in the shape of the cogs, wheels and hands of a clock. As we approached, I read the words painted on the window.
Salomon & Botts, Makers of Clocks, Watches & Mechanical Toys since 1620
“Salomon & Botts,” I repeated out loud. “Where have I heard that before?” I searched my memory and gasped, causing Imogen to start and choke on the cheese. “Salomon and Botts was engraved on the back of Phineas Webb’s pocketwatch!”
“Oh great,” Imogen said, sputtering and wiping her watering eyes. “If Phineas Webb shops here, we’ll never be able to afford it.”
“No, but don’t you see?” I said, patting her on the back. “Whoever made that watch knows Ramona’s song. Maybe knows Ramona herself! Imogen, you’re a genius!”
“Thanks, but what did I do?”
I laughed with the giddiness of our good luck. “You led us here!” And linking arms, I reached for the door knob. “It’s a good thing you’re crazy enough to go cutting off all your hair.”
A CUCKoo, CUCKoo greeted us as we crossed the threshold into the cramped but extraordinary little shop. I looked up to see the little wooden bird in the cuckoo clock above the door. It flapped its mechanical wings and cuckooed again before retreating back inside its miniature house. The shop was dark with low, sloping ceilings; but where shafts of light found their way through the windows, they illuminated shelves upon shelves of impossibly-detailed toy theatres, marionettes, music boxes and clocks of all shapes and every colour. My eyes could have gone on exploring those shelves all day, but they were drawn away by the footsteps on the stairs behind the counter.
A willowy old man with wispy white hair and a wisp of white beard, as if he’d just come down out of the clouds, stooped over the counter. His bright blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.
“How might I serve you?” He spoke hoarsely and with a heavy accent.
“I’d like to buy a watch,” Imogen said. “Nothing fancy. Just something simple.”
The old man nodded and turned to the back wall of shelves lined with little boxes. “Shoo. Shoo, Häxa.” He waved his hand at a grey kitten slinking along the shelf. “She looks for mice,” he said, returning with a box of mismatched pocketwatches.
As Imogen began to rummage through them, I struck up conversation. “Do you make the watches yourself?” I asked casually.
He smiled and, taking a rag from his pocket to clean his glasses, answered, “Oh yes. The Salomon family has been making clocks for hundreds of years. The best in Switzerland.”
“So you’re the Salomon in Salomon and Botts?” I tried to sound innocently inquisitive, the way Imogen always managed to do so convincingly.
“Ah, that was my father. He brought our Swiss clocks to London and partnered with a famous toy theatre maker by the name of Botts. And so, there you have it.”
I nodded. “Mr. Salomon–”
“Please, call me Jacques.”
“Jacques, I saw the most extraordinary musical pocketwatch recently, and it had your name on it. I wonder if you might remember it?”
“Wait, wait.” He picked up a small trumpet and held it to his ear. “Now, you were saying about this pocketwatch?”
I described the watch, its little canary bird and the sad, sweet song it sang in every detail I could remember. When I finished, he lowered the little ear trumpet.
“I know this watch,” he said.
“You do?” Imogen had left off rummaging through the box and leaned forward eagerly.
“Oh yes, I recollect it perfectly.” His eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. “It was one of a kind, made to order, though I was not the one to make it. You see, the watch you describe is very old… though not quite so old as me, perhaps.” He chuckled wheezily. “But I do remember a young man bringing it to me for mending.”
“Oh yes, that must be the one.” I was almost breathless with excitement. “It looked as though the case had been cracked and put back together. How long ago would you say you mended it?”
He scratched the side of his head, making his wispy hair feather out like cotton candy. “Years ago,” he said at last. “Before the hairs on my head turned white, I think.”
My rising excitement took a plunge. “Oh,” I said. “I don’t suppose you still remember what the young man looked like?”
“But of course, I do. How could I forget? He was, after all, quite famous then. He and his young painter friends were going to revolutionise art forever, as I recall. Yes, young Gabriel Webb.”
Imogen and I looked at each other, confused. “Do you mean Phineas Webb?” I asked.
Mr. Salomon wheezed out another chuckle. “No, no. I may be losing my marbles, but I’d know Phineas Webb as well as everyone else in this city. No, the young man who brought me the canary pocketwatch was Gabriel, Phineas’s lesser-known brother. A very quiet, soft-spoken young man. But very polite, as I recall… Ah, and he had a lame leg.”
I was gobsmacked. “Gabriel? But–”
Whatever question I meant to ask was interrupted by a cuckoo as the door opened and heavy steps entered the shop behind us.
Imogen tensed but stared straight ahead. Without turning around, I felt the hair rise on the
back of my neck. At the same time, the grey kitten screeched and dove from its shelf to skulk behind the counter. Mr. Salomon looked uneasy as he adjusted his spectacles on his nose and cleared his throat. “May I help you, sir?” he wheezed.
A thick, gnarly, dirty hand smacked down upon the counter. Instinctively, I jumped back and saw the very person I’d dreaded. Mr. Wix stood at my shoulder, his breath rasping, his ape-like shoulders hunched around his ears, his scarred face contorted in a hideous scowl directed at me.
I quickly looked away, trying to stay composed. “Thank you, Mr. Salomon.” My throat had gone dry and I had to swallow before I could say another word. “We’ll think about the watch and come back another time.”
Mr. Wix’s scowling eyes followed us to the door. We were out in a cat’s wink, but not before I got a good look at his hand.
18
A Mysterious Message
Peeking out from behind a parked omnibus on St Martin’s Lane, we watched Mr. Wix leave the shop. He glanced up and down Cecil Court, then pulled up his collar and walked briskly down the alley in the opposite direction.
“Thank goodness,” Imogen whispered, relaxing the grip she had on my forearm. “Now, shall we go back and get that watch I wanted?”
I glared at her.
“I’m only kidding,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Let’s get back to our room before that creeper catches up to us again. Besides, I’m dying to dig into this cheese.”
“You really think he’s following us then?” I asked as we meandered our way back through the market stalls.
“Of course he’s following us, Katie. What are the odds in a city of this size that we would just happen to keep bumping into him? That he would just happen to be hanging about outside our hostel? I don’t know how he managed to follow us home without our noticing. Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl.” She shivered.
