by Clive Mullis
‘Trouble? Between the guilds?’ asked the master; his eyes widening. ‘How could you suggest such a thing? The guilds are like a family, Mr Cornwallis.’
Which meant, thought Cornwallis, that everyone would be at each other’s throats. Someone in the guilds wanted to point a finger towards the ironworkers; he now had the problem of finding out which guild. At least it indicated progress; he could now narrow it down to several hundred suspects.
‘Tell me, Mr Tredding,’ said Cornwallis, a thought coming into his head. ‘With the dwarfs prepared to sell you ore for your foundry, who would be the biggest loser?’
‘Loser? I don’t think anyone would lose. We take all the ore we can get. A city like this gobbles up ore like there’s no tomorrow.’
Chapter 22
Phil the Flick looked around nervously as he came through the door flanked by two of Gerald’s heavies, his eyes never resting on anything long enough to notice what he could see — self-preservation being high on his agenda. He had never been invited into Gerald’s lair before and he knew that many didn’t get a second invitation, namely because you can’t invite someone who is no longer there. He decided to be conciliatory, innocent, ignorant and compliant. He wanted to walk back out the same way he came in.
Tall and skinny as a boot-lace with a gaunt drawn face and a mop of dark unkempt badly cut hair, Phil got nudged from behind and stumbled forward to where Gerald sat with Frankie and Rose, drinking tea and nibbling biscuits.
‘Er…?’ began Phil as he looked at the three of them sitting there. His eyes rested on Rose; he’d seen her about the slum before, but only at a distance and that hadn’t prepared him for seeing her up close. ‘Er…?’ he repeated as she put the mug down and stood up. She smiled at him. ‘Er…?’ he said again, now getting the full front-on experience and he couldn’t handle the things that were happening to various regions of his anatomy.
Gerald waved him to come close. ‘You’ve gone an’ followed a couple o’ lads; ‘erbert an’ Norris. Tell us abaht it.’
‘Er…’ said Phil, still staring at Rose, his tongue hanging out.
‘We ain’t got all day,’ prompted Gerald, now noticing the way he looked at Rose and deciding that it was a look too far, especially here in The Brews where only he could look at her like that. ‘Right, sod it, you’re getting a special.’
Gerald stood up and took a few steps towards Phil, who with eyes still staring at Rose, hadn’t noticed. He still hadn’t noticed when Gerald stood right in front of him and then when he did notice, quite suddenly, and in a way that he wouldn’t have thought possible, he realised that he should have been paying attention earlier. He’d heard of Gerald’s special talent, now he experienced it, fully and undiluted.
Phil suddenly had the breath sucked out of him as Gerald stepped forward and merged into him. He let out a wail as his body protested at the feeling of being turned inside out, he shuddered and shivered and then an icy finger seemed to rip up from his toes to his head and nausea hit, as though his breakfast wanted to make a bid for freedom. Then Gerald did what he only did to special people. Instead of walking right through a body, he sometimes stopped and turned around. This made for an especially excruciating experience, not painful, but weird beyond weird.
Rose and Frankie had seen this before and they always wanted to know what Gerald could see. For some reason, neither of them had the nerve to ask.
Gerald re-emerged from Phil wearing a big wide grin of satisfaction. Phil, to the contrary, wore a big wide grimace of having been scared shitless — though Gerald may have an opinion on whether that was, in fact, true or not.
Phil shuddered again and decided not to fight the cringing feeling that swept over him as he sank to his knees and sort of folded in on himself.
Gerald turned and nudged him with his boot. ‘On yer feet, lad, we got a load o’ questions to asks yer.’
Phil raised his head and climbed unsteadily to his feet, his face like a bowl of jelly with a fart running through it. ‘What do you want to know,’ he asked hesitantly, now not looking at Rose at all.
‘That’s better, me lad. Norris an’ ‘erbert. You followed ‘em. We wants to know all abaht it.’
Phil began to relate the story from when Herbert’s mum approached him with her concerns, offering him a freebie should he decide to help her.
‘Freebie?’ asked Rose interjecting.
‘Don’t be naive, Rose,’ answered Frankie quietly. ‘How do you think she puts bread on the table?’ He indicated to Phil to carry on as Rose shifted uncomfortably in her seat, thinking about daily life in the slum.
Phil explained how he followed the two lads to the Bull and Badger and sat in the corner as he watched them engage in conversation with the mystery man and then receive a bag of money from him.
‘So this meeting seemed pre-arranged?’ asked Rose, getting her mind back to where it should be.
Phil nodded. ‘‘E were already there and ‘e seemed to be expecting ‘em.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Frankie.
Phil shrugged. ‘Dunno really. A man.’
Rose sighed. ‘How old? How was he dressed?’
‘C’mon, spit it out,’ ordered Gerald. ‘You want me to do me little trick again?’
‘No, no, no,’ replied Phil holding up a hand, horror flooding his face. ‘‘E were about forty, light hair, a bit long, big red nose like he drinks too much, good clothes like a tailor makes, dark suit it was, nice cut. ‘E ‘ad a really irritating laugh, like an ‘orse being kicked in the goolies.’
‘And he didn’t have anyone with him?’ asked Rose.
‘Not that I could see. I follows ‘im when ‘e left as I were a bit curious, an’ I reckoned I could get a few more freebies if I found out who ‘e were.’
‘Did you?’
Phil shook his head. ‘No, ‘e just went straight to the Assembly. Walked in bold as brass as if ‘e owned the place. I left it there and went back to get me reward.’
‘You didn’t ask one of the guards who he was?’
Phil laughed. ‘Yeah, they really gonna tell me that, ain’t they?’
‘No, I suppose you’re right.’
‘But you’d recognise him if you saw him again?’ probed Frankie.
‘Yeah, but I ain’t likely too, am I.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I reckon you’ll be seeing him very soon now. I think a little wait at the Assembly is in order.’
The Stoat was packed but unusually subdued by the time Rose and Frankie arrived. It had been a very busy day and they needed a little light refreshment to bring succour to the soul. They had arranged to meet Cornwallis there and true to his word, he’d already bagged a table and lined up the pints.
Sliding into her seat next to him, Rose reached over and cuddled his arm, planting a kiss on his cheek. At the same time, Frankie eased into the chair opposite and wasted no time on pleasantries but just grabbed the pint in front of him and downed a good half of it.
‘Ah, lovely stuff,’ he opined as he crashed the now half-empty glass onto the table. ‘Curdles the toes good and proper.’
‘Glad you appre—’ began Cornwallis until a ruckus at the bar interrupted the flow.
Two gentlemen were having a disagreement, presumably, from the general ebb and flow of the conversation, concerning the correct order of attention from the maid behind the bar. Elbows were prominent as were fists and feet as the duo launched into one another. Grunts and swearing ensued until Big George put down the empties and sauntered over, grabbing each of them by the scruff of the neck and dragging them to the front door, both still trying to lay into one another. A kindly patron opened the door and George gently threw them out. He turned and retraced his steps, picking up the empties then carrying on as if nothing had happened.
‘George must be in a bad mood,’ surmised Frankie. ‘He normally lets ‘em go on for a while first.’
‘He’s not in a bad mood. He’s doing you a favour, trying to keep things quiet…is
h because of your Tulip having a doze upstairs,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘That’s the third fight he’s stopped since I’ve been here. Eddie reckons he’s turning into an uncle and he won’t stand any disturbance when she’s sleeping.’
‘Ah, that’s lovely,’ said Rose. ‘A bear that really cares.’
‘That also explains why this place is so quiet,’ said Cornwallis. ‘George has warned everyone not to disturb her.’
‘Do you think he’s getting broody?’ asked Rose seriously, looking over her shoulder at the big brown bear. ‘Is there a missus George at all? I know he hadn’t got one not long ago.’
Cornwallis shook his head. ‘I asked Eddie that same question not a quarter of an hour ago. Apparently, he’s been like this since you came yesterday, Frankie; and no, Rose, there is no missus George.’
‘Then we should do something about that, can’t have George going without,’ suggested Rose. ‘There must be a lady bear somewhere in this city for him.’
Cornwallis grinned. ‘There probably is, but how can you tell a good looking one from a… a… a not so good looking one?’
‘Easy, I’ll ask another bear.’
Big George dumped his empties and then strolled over to pedal the fan to get rid of the smog that had built up, unaware that three detectives had just taken an interest in his love life.
Isabella came down and joined them, leaving Tulip in the care of Trudi the barmaid, who looked forward to an hour or two of peace and quiet.
‘Budge up, big boy,’ she said as she nudged Frankie. ‘Let a lady take her ease.’
Frankie shuffled up leaving a space for half a buttock, then flung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, giving her a big soggy kiss.
‘Urgh, get off!’ she said, waving a hand in distress.
Frankie went and found a free chair from the far side of the bar and slid it in next to Isabella, in that time Rose and Cornwallis had informed her of the intention concerning George.
‘I’ll ask some of the girls here,’ said Isabella. ‘They probably know George better than anyone. They might have an idea of how to proceed.’
With that item ticked off their agenda, they turned to the more pressing issue with regard to the day’s activities, namely how to catch the one who wanted to do for The Pipe.
It became obvious that there was more to the sabotage than just the disgruntlement of a couple of malcontents as they talked through what they’d learnt. The Guild Hall and Assembly indicated that powerful people were involved, which made things, paradoxically, easier but harder — and this Phil the Flick could identify one of the saboteurs.
‘In a way,’ said Cornwallis. ‘I’m quite looking forward to tomorrow.’
Chapter 23
While he waited, Cornwallis again pondered on the ever-increasing list of things to be done. A note to Goodhalgan explaining his absence would hopefully mollify that aspect of the things that wouldn’t get done; he had hoped to devote more of his time to getting The Pipe up and running. However, finding the man behind the attacks was probably more important because at least then The Pipe would have a chance.
He stood outside Sal’s Sizzler waiting for Phil the Flick. Located in a prime position close to the House of Assembly, the constant stream of hungry mouths queued to sample the food on offer. Saying that it was lucrative didn’t do it justice, it minted money and in exchange, you got the street food of angels.
Cornwallis waited impatiently with the waft from the stall tickling his taste buds and making him feel hungry. He had a hard time resisting temptation as punter after punter strolled by cramming the delights into their mouths. Cornwallis felt his saliva thicken and he decided that he would only wait for another five minutes and then he would indulge — Phil the Flick, or no Phil the Flick.
‘Er… Mr Cornwallis?’ said a voice in his ear.
Cornwallis whipped his head around quickly to confront the person addressing him. He looked him up and down and it took a few moments to register that the man he was waiting for had arrived.
Phil the Flick stood before him having been transformed from a Brews street thief to a middle-class man about town. Gerald had done wonders in producing a man that could go anywhere, be anyone.
‘Phil?’ queried Cornwallis.
The man returned a hesitant smile. ‘Yep, Mr Cornwallis.’
‘How did you recognise me?’
‘I didn’t. That man over there did it for me.’
Phil indicated someone loitering down the street and Cornwallis nodded as he saw Crinning standing by a street lamp. Crinning inclined his head and then turned and walked away.
Cornwallis turned to his new best friend. ‘Well, Mr Phil, let’s hope you can spot the man for me. Ever been inside the Assembly before?’
‘What?’ replied Phil, his face suddenly draining of colour.
‘How else are you going to point the man out? Why do you think you are dressed as you are?’
‘I don’t know. Mr Gerald just made sure I were clean and respectable. I fought maybe I were to stand here and watch the door. That’s what your mates said I were to do.’
Cornwallis grinned wryly. ‘Change of plan. You could end up standing here for days on end. No, we’re going to poke around inside. Just remember to keep your hands to yourself. You get caught thieving in there, you won’t know what’ll happen tomorrow because for you, there will be no tomorrow. Understand?’
Phil gulped. ‘Yes, Mr Cornwallis.’
‘Right, we got that sorted. Hungry?’
Phil nodded. ‘I live in The Brews, Mr Cornwallis. I’m always hungry.’
‘In that case, before we start, we’ll have one of Sal’s specials. Don’t worry, I’m paying.’
Phil’s taste buds did somersaults and his stomach growled like a lion in anticipation. He’d been trying to fight the aroma attacking his senses ever since he first approached Cornwallis, but now, with this revelation, he could let the smell do its worst.
Shortly two buns the size of dinner plates passed across the counter, each filled with rashers of bacon, several sausages, loads of ham and all covered with eggs and a thick brown sauce. Two hands were required to hold it all and a fair degree of time and contemplation to eat it. For Phil, breakfast had never been this good.
The House of Assembly, a red granite edifice, loomed large and permanent. At the top of the steps by the front entrance, the Morris guard protected the House from riots and attacks. They stood menacingly in their dark waistcoats and trousers with their white shirts and dark wide-brimmed hats. Their little bells tingling as they stood to attention with their batons held high. Thankfully, the ceremonial opening of the House had finished a while ago, the tourists seemed to have liked it, but the locals of the city considered it cringe-worthy.
Cornwallis led Phil up the steps and past the protecting guards without acknowledging their presence and in through the door to the foyer beyond. Perkins, the ever-present porter, standing in his customary position behind the highly polished desk, looked up and beckoned him over.
‘Ah, Mr Cornwallis, sir. Haven’t seen you around the place for a while, sir.’
‘No, indeed not, Perkins. I’m just showing Mr… er… Flick here around as he may decide to join my staff here. I trust Mr Speckleby is in the house today?’
‘Yes, sir. I believe he’s in the office, sir.’
‘Good, good, Perkins. Thank you.’
Conrad Speckleby acted as Cornwallis’ understudy, holding the seat on Cornwallis’ behalf, saving him the job of actually having to attend the Assembly himself.
‘Will that be all, Mr Cornwallis, sir?’
‘For the moment, yes, Perkins.’
Perkins then appraised Phil and obviously found him wanting, not of the required class, so dismissed him instantly from his mind. However, as Cornwallis saw the dismissal he knew that word of Phil’s appearance with him would soon filter down to the man that nobody wanted to know or mention — The Bagman, the head of Gornstock’s secret police.
Cornwallis gently tugged Phil’s arm and dragged him through the foyer and into the ornate lobby beyond.
The enormous lobby had green marble flooring with four rows of white pillars rising high to the intricate ceiling above, where a few massive chandeliers dangled menacingly, ready to drop on any miscreants below; some say the journalists were especially targeted, but that was only a rumour put about by a disgruntled member embroiled in a legal wrangle with the press. People packed the lobby: reporters and members telling secrets and doing deals, all for the good of themselves. Nothing was sacrosanct, apart from the money changing hands.
‘Keep an eye out,’ instructed Cornwallis quietly. ‘Give me a nudge if you see our man.’
Phil couldn’t trust his voice at the moment so he just nodded as he looked around and studied the opulence; never in his life did he imagine how richly built the Assembly was: where did all the money come from? And then he realised the money came from poor bastards like him, who had their wages docked so that chunks of it could go to the Morris to pay for stuff like this, to keep them in the style to which they wanted to become accustomed. All these rich bastards were screwing all the poor bastards so that the rich bastards didn’t have to pay for anything. Being a thief did have some advantages as he didn’t pay taxes, but then he thought that he did spend the money he stole, which meant that that money, spent in legitimate places, was liable for tax, which meant that he did contribute in some way to the taxes which paid for all this. He seethed at the injustice of it all, his hard stolen money, gone, to this!
‘Any joy?’ asked Cornwallis.
Phil shook his head. ‘No, can’t see ‘im in ‘ere,’ he said through the gritted teeth of resentment.
Cornwallis shot him a look. ‘A problem?’
Phil shook his head again. ‘No, it’s just that all this costs a bloody fortune. When half the city’s eating the leather off their boots, this lot in ‘ere live like this; it don’t seem right, somehow.’
Cornwallis couldn’t help but agree. ‘No, it doesn’t, but that’s how society works. The Morris happened to be the biggest crooks around some years ago and they built things like this from the money they stole from the people. As a thief, I would have thought you’d appreciate the fact that they were better crooks than the rest of the population.’
