by Jon Mayhew
‘Unless he wanted to lead us to something,’ Josie said, feeling her breathing quicken. ‘And the way it was written . . . You said it sounded like a riddle or puzzle.’ Josie shot a glance at her brother. ‘That’s it, Alfie! There are clues hidden in that letter. There have to be.’
‘But what did you do with it?’ Alfie’s face dropped. ‘It’ll be ruined with the soakin’ we’ve had.’
‘I can remember some of it,’ Josie said, drumming her fingers on the deck. ‘But we’d have to look at it closely.’ Josie’s heart sank as she realised where it was. ‘I left it in the embalming room at the funeral parlour. But that was days ago . . .’
Jacob shouted something to Manny, who scowled at the children and then bustled past them, heaving on a line.
‘We can only hope Wiggins hasn’t chucked it away, that’s all,’ Alfie muttered.
Gradually, London drew nearer and the traffic on the river grew busier. Manny leapt from job to job, tying up sails, securing covers. All the time he never spoke, his mouth tight and small.
‘Manny’s not one for conversation,’ Jacob said as his mate bustled past them. ‘Saves his breath for when it’s needed. Rarely speaks on shore at all. Very particular about what he says and who he says it to.’
Red-sailed barges, bigger two- and three-masted ships, small skiffs, rowing boats – they all edged along the river, weaving in and out of each other. Josie found herself wondering at which point the river water had become so black and noxious again. She watched as the wild, marshy riverbanks gradually gave way to quays and docks, busy with men loading and unloading ships. Jacob pointed out the smaller boats that came trailing from the wharves to collect cargo from ships moored mid-river. And behind them all stood the city itself, with its domes and churches, warehouses and factories. The air became thick with smoke and the stench of the river. Jacob and Manny furled the sails and prepared to dock.
Josie and Alfie watched as the barge neared the quay. Gangs of burly men in oilskins and thick jerseys hovered, pouncing on the ropes as they were thrown out. Slowly the barge nudged the quayside. Gangways were lowered and the men swarmed into the hold of the Galopede.
‘You can stay on the boat for a couple of nights if you need to, you know,’ Jacob said, standing on the busy quayside once they had finally moored the barge. He drew on his pipe and gave them a nod. ‘You’re always welcome. It’s nice having young folk back on deck.’
Manny rolled his eyes, but Josie thought she detected the hint of a smile play across his face.
‘Thank you, Mr Carr,’ she said, running her fingers through her hair. ‘That’s very kind of you. But I don’t think Mr Wiggins will let us out of his sight after this.’
They gave a final wave and Josie led Alfie away into the crowd of dockers wheeling trolleys, carrying sacks and guiding crates being craned out of barge holds.
‘Come on, Alfie,’ she said, eyeing the crows and ravens that were reclaiming the skies from the river gulls. ‘Let’s hope that note is still in the embalming room. If it’s not, we might just be sunk after all.’
.
.
Where shall I make it, my own pretty boy?
Where shall I make it, my comfort and joy?
Above in the churchyard, and dig it down deep,
Put a stone to my head and a flag to my feet,
And leave me down easy until I’ll take a long sleep.
‘Lord Rendall’, traditional folk ballad
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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Unwelcome News
The crush of people reassured Josie as she twisted and turned between them. Each change of neighbourhood brought them nearer to Seven Dials. She just hoped and prayed that Wiggins hadn’t scrapped the note. She could remember most of it, but what if there was something important that she had missed or forgotten about? Her stomach lurched.
Wharves and docks gave way to town houses and shops, the sailors and dock workers replaced by costermongers with barrows, couples linking arms, severe-looking gents marking each step with a jab of a lacquered cane and ladies clicking on the cobbles. Soon the congestion and chaos of the London streets was complete. Josie felt at home again, now that she was away from the grey marshes. Dressed in the clothes Jacob had lent them, she and Alfie looked like two river urchins, barely worth noticing. She followed her brother as he darted down ever-narrowing alleys.
Soon they found themselves at the rear of Wiggins’s shop. Josie thought back to the night she’d watched Alfie in that same back room. So much had happened since then; it seemed as if years had passed.
Through the window Josie could see Mr Wiggins at one of his tables. He wasn’t working. He sat with his head in his hands, staring at the tabletop. Alfie sidled up and pressed his palm to the window. Josie could see the tears in her brother’s eyes.
‘He thinks we’re dead,’ Alfie whispered, his eyes glassy. ‘Poor beggar thinks we’ve gone.’
Alfie opened the back door next to the window and slipped inside, leaving Josie at the threshold. Alfie laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
‘Mr Wiggins?’ Alfie whispered. ‘You all right?’
‘Alfie?’ Wiggins stumbled to his feet and turned to the boy. ‘Is that you?’
‘Large as life, Mr W.’ Alfie smiled as Wiggins wrapped his arms round him.
‘I thought you were dead, what with poor Mr Gimlet . . . and the pony and trap crashed, but they said no trace of you could be found.’ Wiggins patted Alfie’s back. His voice barely rose above a whisper and tears trickled from beneath his thick spectacles. ‘Oh, my boy, welcome back, welcome back!’
Josie watched as Alfie untangled himself from Wiggins’s embrace and felt the sting of tears herself. With Cardamom and Gimlet taken, there was nobody to miss her while they’d been away, nobody to shed a tear on her return. She shuffled into the back room. Mr Wiggins coughed and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief before giving her arm a squeeze.
‘Thank the Lord you’re safe,’ he said. ‘Both of you. Now, tell me what happened to you. Where have you been?’ He lifted his lenses and peered at their rough clothing.
‘Well, you’d better sit down again, Mr Wiggins,’ Alfie said, ‘cos it’s a long story and one you’ll find hard to swallow . . .’
Their tale came out jumbled and confused as Alfie and Josie took it in turns to share the details. Alfie would suddenly add something in the middle of Josie’s part or she would correct some detail in his account. Mr Wiggins sat through it all, frowning and deep in thought.
‘The note, Josie,’ Alfie gabbled. ‘We need the note.’
‘Note?’ Wiggins said, peering at Alfie.
‘The one from my uncle,’ Josie said. ‘We left it here. The one about Gorsefields Yard.’
‘This?’ Wiggins pulled the note from his breast pocket. ‘I found it on my embalming table. Doesn’t make much sense, but I recognised the handwriting . . . my old friend. I kept it safe . . .’
Josie felt a glow of warmth for this old man. He cared about Cardamom – she could hear real affection for her guardian in the man’s tone.
‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Mr Wiggins.’ Alfie grinned, snatching it and passing it to Josie. ‘The note makes perfect sense.’
There is so much I wanted to tell you, so many regrets that will now lie buried with me. The truth is always at the end of the next sentence we never say. No one knows where the Amarant lies. Forgive my harsh words in the past, Josie, and the times I neglected you. I always loved you. Now think of my last words and don’t heed the goodbye. We’ll meet again. It is my last wish to be buried in Gorsefields Yard.
Take care, Josie.
Uncle Edwin, your loving guardian
‘Yes, look here,’ Josie said, smoothing it out. ‘The truth is always at the end of the next sentence we never say.’ She jabbed a finger at Cardamom’s letter. ‘And at the end of the next sentence he says, the Amarant lies.’
Alfie looked over her shoulder. ‘He was guiding you. Look
: Now think of my last words and don’t heed the goodbye. So we need to look at the last words before he says goodbye.’
Josie read breathlessly to the end of the letter. ‘Here!’ she cried. ‘They say buried in Gorsefields Yard. The Amarant lies buried in Gorsefields Yard!’
Josie clapped her hands and hugged Alfie.
Wiggins sat silently for a long moment. A frown strained his brow.
‘No,’ he said, his voice quiet but firm.
‘But, Mr Wiggins, after all we’ve been through . . .’ Alfie said, leaping up from his seat.
‘You’re not going to Gorsefields Yard,’ Wiggins said, gripping the side of the table.
‘We have to,’ Alfie said, his voice rising to a surprised squeak.
‘We know it’s dangerous but we must go,’ Josie added, staring at Wiggins. ‘After everything we’ve told you – don’t you believe us? Why shouldn’t we go?’
‘Because that is where the Amarant lies . . . but it also happens to be the last resting place of Sebastian Mortlock!’ Wiggins shouted, slamming his fist on the table. His voice dropped to a threatening whisper. ‘If you uncover Mortlock’s body then you might as well tell all the world that your precious Cardamom is a murderer!’
The words rang in Josie’s ears like a gunshot.
‘What do you mean, murderer? That’s not true,’ she said, trembling. ‘A moment ago you said Uncle was your “old friend”, and now you’re accusing him of murder? I thought you cared about him? You’re just jealous because he explored the world instead of grubbing around graveyards all his life!’
Wiggins shook his head sadly. ‘I only wish it weren’t true,’ he said, his voice falling to a low murmur. ‘It was because I was Cardamom’s friend that I agreed to look after you, Alfie, and because of our friendship I kept his secret safe all these years. He told me everything. How he, Corvis and Mortlock had found the Amarant. How after that he was a changed man – haunted, constantly worried that Corvis or Mortlock would go back to Africa to claim it. He kept Mortlock in sight by following him everywhere, even joining a travelling circus with him . . .’
‘Lorenzo’s Circus,’ Alfie whispered.
‘They wandered the land, watching each other, becoming rivals for Madame Lilly’s affections. Mortlock won her heart, breaking Cardamom’s in the process. But it was always the Amarant that Mortlock truly loved. In the end, he abandoned Madame Lilly for the flower.’
‘None of this makes Cardamom a murderer though,’ Josie snapped.
‘Mortlock returned with the Amarant,’ Wiggins went on quietly. ‘Wanted to take Lilly back. But she’d found another to love her and then the fever took her . . . Mortlock could never accept that he’d lost her. He came to London to kill her lover – the man he blamed for her death . . . the Great Cardamom,’ Wiggins said, polishing his glasses with his coat-tails.
‘Cardamom and Madame Lilly?’ Alfie said, screwing his face up. ‘But you said she loved Mortlock?’
‘But Mortlock had abandoned her; Cardamom had always admired her. He treated her with respect and she grew to love him. It’s hard to explain but theirs was a quiet, warm affection. He knew she still loved Mortlock and prayed Mortlock would never return.’
‘But he did,’ Josie said. She thought of the letter calling Cardamom a thief. She realised for the first time that Mortlock was accusing him of stealing Lilly, her mother.
‘The two men met in Gorsefields Yard,’ Wiggins murmured. ‘Mortlock had even dug a grave for his old friend, beneath the old yew tree. Cardamom told me that Mortlock began to brag – he was going to show him the full might of the Amarant by raising the dead from their graves.’
‘And Cardamom killed him,’ Josie whispered. ‘But only to stop him from doing something terrible . . .’
‘You are a loyal child,’ Wiggins said with a sad smile. He hesitated. ‘But misguided. Your guardian didn’t kill his friend – he buried him alive. It seems they were fighting, and Cardamom grabbed a shovel and struck Mortlock with it. Mortlock fell into the grave. He was semi-conscious, but Cardamom just couldn’t stop himself, and he threw shovelful after shovelful of earth down on top of his old friend. He didn’t stop until Mortlock was completely buried. It must have been a kind of madness.’
‘No,’ Josie hissed, rising from her seat. ‘It isn’t true. You’re making it up.’
‘I’m only telling you what Cardamom told me,’ Wiggins said with a sigh. ‘He did what he had to do – he stopped Mortlock – but the guilt of what he’d done made it hard to live with. Mortlock’s disappearance was always a mystery. It was never investigated properly. Edwin made a feeble effort to alert the police, for appearance’s sake, but no one was interested. Glad to see the back of him, most folk were.’ Josie thought of the letter from the police that her guardian had kept, tormenting himself with it night after night. Wiggins continued, ‘If you disturb the grave now, questions will be asked. Cardamom’s good name will be dragged through the mire. His reputation will be besmirched for ever. That is why you can never disturb Gorsefields Yard.’
Josie bit her lip. It was a terrible story – and so hard to reconcile with everything she’d known about her guardian. She didn’t want to think that he had done such a thing, so how could she live with everyone else knowing? She thought of the smiling audiences at the Erato, the ladies and gents who had waited to meet the Great Cardamom. What would they say? His final legacy would be that of a cold-blooded, brutal murderer.
‘But Cardamom asked to be buried in Gorsefields, Mr Wiggins,’ Alfie said. ‘He gave us the note. He was tryin’ to point somethin’ out to us.’
‘Who knows how the guilty mind works, Alfie?’ Wiggins said, rubbing his eyes and pushing his spectacles on to the top of his head. ‘Maybe he felt he only deserved to be buried at the scene of his crime.’
‘Cardamom specified in his will where he wanted to be buried and he told me to destroy the Amarant. Those were his last words,’ Josie said, folding her arms and glaring at Wiggins. ‘I know what he wanted and I’m going to do it. Alfie?’
‘Josie’s right, Mr Wiggins,’ Alfie said. ‘Besides, when Corvis gets his paws on it we’ll all end up as living corpses. His lordship won’t rest until he has it!’
‘I can’t let you go, children. Let sleeping dogs lie. Mortlock has lain there long enough and not caused any trouble. This whole business will blow over if you let it. You watch and see.’
‘If I could leave the Amarant and protect Uncle’s reputation, I would. But Corvis will find the Amarant, Mr Wiggins. Alfie is right,’ Josie said. ‘And then there’ll be no hope for any of us. If we can find it first and destroy it . . .’
‘And how are you going to do that, Josie Chrimes?’ Wiggins stared deep into her eyes.
‘We’ll find a way,’ Josie stuttered. She couldn’t hold Wiggins’s gaze and glanced away. But how? she wondered. ‘Sacrifice and a tender heart,’ Cardamom had said. What did that mean?
‘No, I forbid it!’ Wiggins growled. ‘You will not, under any circumstances, go anywhere near Gorsefields Yard. Do I make myself clear?’ Age had taken its toll on Wiggins but, looking at him, Josie remembered that he still dug graves, still walked miles after funeral processions. He could easily stop them if he wanted to.
‘Sorry, Mr Wiggins,’ Alfie said, snatching his guardian’s glasses from his head. He walked up and down the shelves of bottles, rearranging them noisily. ‘I hate to do this but if you look carefully up ’ere, then you’ll find your specs in the end. Only . . . mind the arsenic!’
‘Alfie, no!’ Wiggins staggered to his feet but crashed into the table. Alfie grabbed a shovel and he and Josie ran, slamming the door behind them. There was nothing now that Wiggins could do to stop them.
.
.
She followed him high, she followed him low,
Till she came to the church-yard;
O there the grave did open up,
And young william he lay down.
‘Sweet William’s Ghost’,
traditional folk ballad
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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Mortlock
Josie and Alfie hovered near the gateway of Gorsefields Yard, waiting for the early night of winter. A funeral party had just broken up and the last few carriages had rattled out into the darkening lanes. One or two birds gave a subdued call as they settled down for a bitterly cold night. Josie could hear the distant bustle of the city, but here, around the yard, stillness had descended. Alfie looked cold and pinched, his face glum.
‘We have to do it, Alfie,’ she said, hugging herself to ease her shivering. She was saying this as much for her own sake as for his.
‘I know,’ Alfie murmured. ‘But I didn’t like doin’ that to Wiggins, that’s all. He deserves more respect.’
‘You had no choice. He would’ve tried to stop us. Don’t worry. Once this is all over, he’ll understand.’
Now and then someone would pass by, not giving them a second glance. Alfie had hidden the shovel in a pile of old planks that someone had left leaning against the wall of the yard. ‘Might look a bit odd, two youngsters hanging around a graveyard with a spade,’ he’d said with a humourless grin.
The thought of what they had to do filled Josie with dread. Mortlock lay beneath the earth, a mouldering corpse, still clutching the Amarant – and they had to dig him up. She wanted to run back to Wiggins or to the Galopede and hide, but they couldn’t shirk what had to be done. Just burying the Amarant wasn’t enough – it had to be destroyed, once and for all.
Darkness settled over the city, making vague silhouettes of the dilapidated houses that huddled together around the yard. A thick layer of cloud obscured the moon. Checking there were no onlookers, they slipped in through the gates. Josie could smell the damp earth at her feet and feel the chill of night setting in. Shadows thickened, pushing their way into every corner and hollow of the cemetery. Gravestones were merging into blackness, becoming phantoms that seemed to move and quiver in the dark.
