by Susan Green
“Or the savage beauty,” said SP. “I wonder who she is.”
“Perhaps no one,” said Mr Egg. “La Belle Sauvage is the name of an old inn on Ludgate Hill. I believe it is in Seacoal Lane.”
Then maybe the message was for me. That’s where I used to live.
14
A VOICE IN THE DARK
I was very tired. Tea and cakes went on for ever, and so did Lady Skewe’s loud voice pondering over moth and silverfish, and Mr Egg’s endless teary stories about his mother. It was nearly an hour and a half later when we said our goodnights, and even then there was a last-minute delay while we waited for John.
“Where can he be?” SP was on the point of asking one of Lady Skewe’s servants to go looking for him when the familiar carriage came around the corner and we got in.
I didn’t feel like talking. None of us did. I was so caught up in thinking about Ma and Mr Egg and Seacoal Lane that I got a shock when I heard SP’s voice, quite loud, calling to the coachman.
“John! I say, John.” He rapped on the side of the carriage. “John.” The carriage didn’t stop, and he turned to Miss Lillingsworth and me. “We’ve been travelling for at least a quarter of an hour, haven’t we? We should be near the bridge by now. What’s got into the man? John!” The carriage stopped. “Perhaps he’s taken a wrong turn in this fog. I’ll get out and see what’s the matter. Won’t be a second.” And with a reassuring nod, he jumped out.
“Where are we, I wonder?” asked Miss Lillingsworth. As far as I could see, with all the fog swirling around, we were in a narrow street between tall brick buildings. “We seem to be in some kind of business district. Are these warehouses, do you think?”
“Could be anywhere,” I said. “Easy enough to get lost in this fog.”
I could only make out bits and pieces of what SP said – “Why didn’t you … Who told you …” – and John’s low replies. Then there was a loud noise, as if something hit the side of the carriage.
Both of us froze, straining to hear. Miss Lillingsworth put her fingers to her lips and motioned for me to open the door. As quietly as we could, we slipped out of the carriage. There were no voices now. No sound at all. What had happened to SP? What had happened to John? Miss Lillingsworth clasped my hand, and the two of us moved forward.
“Oh,” Miss Lillingsworth gasped. My heart dropped like a stone. There was SP lying on the cobbles, with a caped figure bending over him. And it wasn’t John. John is short and stout, and this man was tall and broad-shouldered. He looked up, and though I couldn’t see properly, I knew he was staring straight at me. Miss Lillingsworth’s calls of “Help! Help! Robbers!” seemed to disappear, muffled in the fog. I couldn’t see his face, and that only made it worse when he spoke to me. His voice was deep, and smooth as black velvet – a gentleman’s voice – but somehow not quite.
“Miss Sparks, I presume?” He held out his hand.
I panicked. Maybe I should have stayed with SP and Miss Lillingsworth, but I knew – I don’t know how I knew, but I did – that this was no robbery. It was me he was after. I ran.
“Stop!”
Not bloody likely. I took off like a greyhound after the lure. Sure enough, footsteps followed, and that voice in the dark calling my name. I ran like the devil was after me along the deserted street, through an alley with a gas lamp at the far end, into a courtyard, and then down a lane into another court. The footsteps kept coming, and I ran all the faster. I turned a corner, and there was a light up ahead, shining red in the fog, and voices. It was a small fire, with ten or fifteen people around it.
“Help!” I called. “Help me.” But almost at once I knew I’d picked the wrong mark. The faces that turned towards me were something out of a nightmare, all blooming with sores and bruises, teeth missing, eyes glittering. I could smell their stinking rags and the gin on their breath.
“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” said one, and the whole company laughed.
Hands grabbed at me, clutching at my skirt and shawl. Fingers dug into my arms and poked my ribs. The nightmare faces leaned close to mine, but I pulled free and kept running.
I darted down another alley. There were more people here, and I hesitated in front of a group of women gathered around the entrance steps to one of the houses. A crew of small children was crawling and toddling around their skirts. Mothers with children, I thought. They’ll help me.
“Excuse me …” I faltered.
“Excuse me! ’Ere’s Lady Muck wants us to excuse ’er, girls,” shrieked one.
“Excuse me. Excuse you,” said another, and then the lot of them were screaming and cackling like witches, and the children were laughing too.
I kept running. More lanes, more alleys, more courts. Sometimes the fog was so thick I could hardly see, and then it would lift and I’d realise how utterly lost I was. It was like a maze. Was I back where I’d started? I slipped and fell, and while I was lying winded I heard the voice, faint but following, still calling my name. “Verity Sparks, Verity Sparks!” I scrabbled myself up and kept going.
I had a stitch now, and I knew I couldn’t go much further. I slipped again, this time landing on my back. I would have just lain there in the filth, except a hand grabbed me and pulled me sideways into the shadows. I struggled, but a dozen hands were on me. A voice said, “Shh. Yer safe,” and when I looked, there was a mob of children leaning over me. Boys or girls, I couldn’t tell; they were all pale as mushrooms, filthy, with matted hair. There were about ten of them, all huddled in the damp entrance to a cellar.
“Down there,” ordered one of them, and half-pushed me down the steps. I crouched, he leaned on top of me, and the others crowded in front while the littlest one called, “Eh, mister. You after that girl?”
“Did you see her? Where did she go?” The velvet voice was hoarse and panting now.
“I seen ’er, sir. She went through the court and up the lane to the footbridge, sir. That way. Runnin’ pretty fast.”
“Good boy.” I heard the jingle as a coin hit the ground, and then the footsteps took off again, ringing on the cobbles, fainter and fainter, until they faded to nothing.
“Let ’er up.” The crush of bodies moved off me and I poked my head up above the cellar. The court was quiet and empty.
“’E’s gone.” Now my eyes were used to the dark, I could see that the thin face was smiling. “Dirty ole man. We ’ates that, don’ we? Dirty ole men, chasin’ kids. They orter get the chop, we finks.”
One of them made a cutting movement with his hands and the others nodded. I looked at them, all cuddled together like puppies. “Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Dookie,” said my rescuer. “An’ this is Sam, Ella, Dobbin, Mike …” Each child bobbed its head. “An’ this is Finn, and Eli, an’ Gammy, an’ Polly …”
“Polly.” It was the little girl from outside Lady Skewe’s.
“I tole you I seen ’er,” she said to Dookie. “She was wiv the lady wot give me the deuce.” She winked at me, and then asked in a hoarse voice, “You orright?”
“I am,” I said. “Thanks to all of you. I think you’ve saved my life.”
They giggled and squirmed a bit at that, and I glanced at the rotten steps and the splintered wooden door and the nest of old rags and newspapers. “Do you live here?”
Dookie nodded. “This is Flash Harry’s place, where ’e takes ’is stuff. ’E lets us be ’ere ’cos we keep an eye. We see who comes an’ goes and we lets ’im know. An’ no one moves us on. You sure you’re orright now, miss?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you don’ belong ’ere,” said Dookie. He spoke kindly though. “You get you ’ome.”
“Yes. I will. Thank you. Thank you all.” Thank you seemed not quite enough. I didn’t have any money on me. What else could I give them? “Could you use my shawl? It’s muddy, but that will brush off. It’s very warm.” I held it out, and Dookie solemnly took it from me.
“We can use it. Where d’you want to g
o, miss? We can point you the way.”
“I want to find a policeman.” They laughed. Policemen were not their friends. “Or someone who can help me.”
“That way. Through the alley and then keep goin’ straight, and you’ll hit the shops. There’s lights an’ there’s cabs, an’ this old preacher man on the corner sometimes. ’E might help. Bye, miss.”
I ran at first, and then I walked. I felt almost safe, for the lanes here were lit up and alive with people. They were loitering, or walking along like me, or just leaning in the shadows in doorways and porches, talking and drinking and smoking pipes. I thought that no one would be interested in a girl if she just walked along as if she knew where she was going, not showing that she was scared or lost. Well, I was almost right. I had my eyes fixed on the gas lamps up ahead, I suppose, for I walked right into a group of young men. One of them caught me by the sleeve, another grabbed my skirt, and they spun me round from one to the other, breathing beery fumes into my face.
“Let me go.”
“Let me go,” one of them said in a high squeaky voice, and they all laughed. “Who says?”
“Bill Bird,” I said. I’ll never know where that came from. It was probably the only time my uncle had ever helped me in his whole life.
“Bill Bird,” one of them muttered doubtfully. “The Bill Bird?”
“Yes, the Bill Bird,” I said firmly. “He’s me uncle.”
They drew back, and one of them said, “What you doin’ ’ere then?”
“A spot o’ business, and never you mind what it is, neither,” I snapped, losing the genteel tone Miss Judith had been working on. “Lemme go now, and I won’t say nothin’ about it to Uncle Bill. What’s that street up ahead?”
They’d already scarpered, but the answer came floating back to me. “Haymarket.”
Cook had always warned us about Haymarket, with its pubs and theatres and saloons that were open till all hours, full of shady characters just waiting to pounce on young girls. Was I out of the frying pan and into the fire? I turned the corner and looked around me. It was certainly crowded, busy and noisy. There were drunks of both sexes and painted ladies and beggars and jugglers and flower sellers and muffin men and an organ-grinder and even a few gentlemen too, in dark coats and stiff white collars and tall top hats. One of them laid his gloved hand on my arm, saying, “Hello, my dear. Going my way?” but I ducked away from him. I looked high and low for a member of the Metropolitan Police but I couldn’t see that blue uniform anywhere in the crowd, and I didn’t feel like asking anyone. Then I had an idea. A cab was what I was after. I’d get the cabbie to take me to a police station, and the police could find Miss Lillingsworth and SP, and tell the Professor, and … My plan didn’t go any further than that.
Now I could see a line of hansom cabs waiting for fares. I felt sorry for the horses, working so late on a cold night, but at least the two-wheeled cabs weren’t heavy to pull. I went up to the first one in the line.
“I haven’t any money …” I began.
“You don’t get no ride, then,” the cabbie said, and turned his back to me.
I tried the next one. “My friends will see to it that you get paid when …”
“I drive for a fare, not for a promise.”
Well, it was clear now I was going the wrong way about it. I approached the next cabbie differently.
“I’d like to go to the nearest police station, please,” I said.
But the first cabbie yelled down the line, “Don’t you listen to ’er, Sam. She ain’t got no money.”
Sam growled at me. “Off you go. And don’t hang around here, botherin’ the punters.”
“But how am I going to get to the–”
“Same as everyone without a fare. You walk.”
I walked to the corner and then stopped. I didn’t even know where I was going.
“Get out of the way,” someone said, bumping me sideways.
“Move along,” said another, and I found myself swept along with the stream of people, buffeted and trodden on, through the brightly lit streets. At last I pushed and shoved my way out of the crowd, and slipped around a corner. There I leaned, trembling, against the side of a haberdashery shop.
I felt like I couldn’t go on. I was tired and aching all over; I was worried sick about SP and Miss Lillingsworth; and worse still, I was right at the very end of my courage. My mind went back to Ma. If she was here, watching over me, what would she want me to do?
I don’t know why I looked across the street just then. What I saw was a lighted shop with the sign of the three balls on it. Underneath that was written in large gold letters:
Vassily Plotkin
Money Lent Upon Every Description
of Valuable Property
A pawnbroker. My hand went to the red cord around my neck. Ma’s ring was gold. It must be worth a dozen cab fares. What would Ma want me to do? All at once I knew. She’d want me to pawn her ring and help SP and Miss Lillingsworth.
A bell tinkled as I opened the door. At the back of the shop an elderly bearded man sat surrounded by furniture and racks of clothes and cases of jewellery and trinkets, and telescopes and stuffed birds under glass and brass trumpets and I can’t say what else, but the shop was very clean and neat all the same. He had a coffee pot on a burner. The familiar comforting smell made me think of home. Mulberry Hill. How I longed to be back there, safe and sound, with this nightmare over. I was close to tears.
“What can I do for you, little miss?” The man had a very deep voice, slightly foreign.
I held out the ring. “Can I have … can I have some money for it, please, sir?”
He peered over his wire-rimmed specs. “You have fallen over?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked me up and down, taking in my new boots and my fine wool dress. I could tell he was wondering why I was here in his shop, covered in mud and trying to pawn a ring.
“The ring was my mother’s,” I said. I didn’t want him to think I’d stolen it.
He took it from me and inspected it closely. “It is a Russian wedding ring. See, there are three kinds of gold – rose, yellow and white. It is a lovely thing. Why do you pawn it, little miss?”
“I need money for a cab,” I said. “I don’t know what happened to our coachman, but someone else was driving, and he attacked my friend, and …” I started to tremble.
“Sit down, little miss.” He put a cup of coffee into my hand.
“… and I ran and ran and he chased me and there were these men and …”
“Eat this.” It was a sweet roll.
“… and I’m lost, and the cabbie wouldn’t take me without the fare. Please, sir, I don’t know what to do.”
“Let me think about your problem while you finish your coffee and your roll,” he said. He seemed very kind and I now felt quite safe with him in the circle of lamplight. He asked me who my friends were, and where they lived, and wrinkled his brows as he thought and thought. “Now, this is what I will do. I will go with you to the police station, and after that, I will send you home. I will pay for the cab, and you can keep the lovely ring that was your mother’s. It will be a loan with no security, but I think that I can trust you.”
“You can, you can.” I took his hand. “Thank you so much, sir.”
He nodded and looked at me with his gentle brown eyes. “You will come back and see me, no? And repay your loan?”
“Yes, of course.”
Mr Plotkin closed up the shop. We found a cab, and I started to thank him again, but he shook his head. “What were we put on earth for, if not to help one another? Do not worry. You know, I predict that in no time at all, you will be home safe with your friends.”
15
DEAD ENDS AND CLUES
To tell the truth, I had my doubts, but Mr Plotkin was right after all.
“Thank goodness, miss,” one of the policemen said, after we walked in to the police station and I started to tell my story. “We’ve had five men out
searching for you. Mr Plush is well known to the constabulary – I mean that in a good way – and as soon as we heard, we were onto it.”
“Inspector Grade is handling the case,” said another. “We’re to take you to your friends’ house, not keep you here, you being a young lady and all.” He looked me up and down. “You look dead beat, miss, and no wonder, running all that way. Since the cab’s still waiting, we’ll just pop you back in and Constable Griggs’ll go with you. And Mr Plotkin, I’ll find a cab for you, sir. A regular good Samaritan you’ve been tonight. We’ll have her back with her friends in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
It took a little longer than that, but by midnight Constable Griggs had delivered me to Miss Lillingsworth’s, and she had me clutched to her chest like she’d never let go.
“I’m all right, Miss Lillingsworth,” I said. “I’ve had a few adventures, but I’m right as rain, truly I am.”
When at last she believed me, she told me that she’d had a few adventures of her own. After the man ran off after me, she revived poor SP and helped him back into the carriage. As soon as she changed her calls of “Help!” to “Fire!”, a nightwatchman ran to her aid. He got the police, and the police got them home and sent word to the Professor. Then all she had to worry about was SP’s head and finding me.
“Miss Lillingsworth,” I said. “What a terrible time you’ve had.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been through worse, my dear – why, when I was teaching the Lampedusa children in Sicily, we were captured by bandits. No, the only terrible thing was the worry about you and SP.”
Miss Lillingsworth, I thought, was made of very tough stuff.
“Is SP badly hurt?” I asked.
“He got a nasty blow to the head, and the doctor’s with him now in the parlour,” she said. “I must get back to him. Millie will look after you, won’t you, Millie?”
Millie actually gave me a hug, and then she bustled me downstairs to the kitchen, where she bandaged my grazed hands, sponged the mud off my skirt and gave me a cup of hot cocoa and some buttered toast.
