He whirled. There, standing in the shadow of the building, whip in hand, was the cabby with the broken nose. Andrew stood frozen as he came toward him. Then, as the cabby reached for him, Andrew ducked under his arm and began running again; first toward the costermonger’s barrows, then turning sharply, cutting between two of them and across the street. Behind him he heard curses, the shouts of the costermongers as the cabby jostled them.
Running like a frightened hare, Andrew turned right into a dark street, then left into another one. Behind him he heard the pounding of heavy boots. Suddenly he sensed rather than saw a narrow opening; an alley that was even darker than the street. He dodged into it and continued running. At the far end of the alley he could see some dim lights. But before he reached them he ran into something solid but yielding and staggered back.
“Ow! Easy, duck,” said a hoarse voice—a woman’s voice. “Someone after you?”
“Yes!”
“In here.”
Reaching behind her, she opened a door, pulled him in after her and shut the door.
“Quick, Meg,” said the woman. “Give me a hand.”
A second woman appeared out of the darkness. Andrew could not see her but he could smell the gin on her breath and sensed that she was a big woman, even bigger than the first one.
“It’s not the police,” he said. “It’s …”
Without warning, he was knocked to the floor. As he lay there, half dazed, he felt fingers unbuttoning his jacket. It was pulled off and so were his trousers, his shirt and tie.
“Get his boots,” said the first woman.
“I’m trying to,” said the second woman, “but the laces are knotted.”
“Well, break them.”
His shocked surprise turned into outrage. Drawing back one leg, Andrew lashed out as hard as he could. There was a howl of pain, and he rolled over, got to his knees, his feet, pulled open the door and staggered out into the alley.
He felt as if he were in a nightmare in which he was doomed to run forever up the dark, foul-smelling alley toward the dim glow of distant lights. But he also knew, as he had known for some time, that this was what the world was really like: filled with strangers who would always turn out to be enemies. Then, unsteady on his feet, he tripped, felt himself falling and even the faint lights were gone.
5
Screamer Again
There had been something about a light—he couldn’t remember what—his head hurt too much. But when he opened his eyes, there it was. At least, there was a light, an oil lamp hanging from a beam in a low ceiling.
As he blinked at it, a voice said, “I think he’s coming round, Mum.”
He turned his head and found himself lying on a cot. Standing next to it and looking down at him anxiously was Screamer. There were footsteps, and two more faces appeared. He knew one of them: Screamer’s brother, Sam. The other was that of a thin woman with greying hair.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“I don’t know. My head hurts.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. That was a nasty crack you got.”
He raised his hand to his forehead. A rag was tied around it.
“Where am I?”
“Our place,” said Screamer.
He looked around. He was in a small room with a table, a stove and a sink.
“But how did I get here?”
“Sam found you, and we brought you up here.”
“Found me?”
“You was lying in the courtyard, cold as a kipper and with blood all over your face,” said Sam.
“But …” He started to sit up, then realized he had nothing on but his drawers and, flushing, pulled up the thin blanket that had been covering him.
Sam nodded grimly. “You’d been stripped,” he said. “Did you come through the alley?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t have. There’s some rough judies through there. They’re all on the kinchin lay—stealing from young ’uns. But their biggest dodge is rolling drunks and skinning anyone they can handle.”
“What were you doing over here anyway?” asked Screamer.
It had all come back to him now; Broken Nose, the women. When he had tripped, fallen, he must have hit his head on the cobbles.
“There was someone after me, chasing me.”
“Who?”
“A man. A cabby.”
He wished she hadn’t asked him that. His head still ached and he was too tired to go through the whole story.
The woman must have sensed that.
“Never mind,” she said. “You can tell us in the morning. Go to sleep now.”
“He’s going to sleep here?” said Sam.
“Yes.”
“What happens to me?”
“You can bring in that extra mattress from the bedroom, sleep on that.”
Sam scowled at her, at Andrew, then went through a door near the head of the cot. Andrew wanted to protest, say he’d sleep on the mattress, but he couldn’t—couldn’t even keep his eyes open any longer. He heard a scuffling noise as Sam dragged in the mattress, then nothing more.
A faint clattering woke him. He opened his eyes and saw the grey haired woman busy at the stove. She must, he decided, be Mrs. Wiggins, Screamer’s and Sam’s mother. She turned, smiled at him. Her face was drawn and careworn, but it was a pleasant smile.
“So you’re awake,” she said. “How do you feel this morning?”
“Better.”
“Good. Do you want to get up? We’ll be having breakfast as soon as Sam comes back.”
He nodded, started to get up, then remembered that he had no clothes on but his drawers. She saw his hesitation.
“You can wrap yourself in the blanket,” she said. “Your boots are under the cot.”
She turned her back while he put his shoes on and got up, wrapping himself in the blanket. He had looked around the room quickly the night before. Now he did so again. The room was small and, though it was sparsely furnished, it was clean. The mattress on which Sam had slept—a straw pallet—was on the floor in the corner.
Screamer came in from the bedroom.
“Hello,” she said. “Feeling better?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
There were footsteps coming up a flight of stairs, the door opened, and Sam came in with a loaf of bread. He looked coldly at Andrew, gave the bread to Mrs. Wiggins. She cut it carefully—two slices for each of them—and poured tea. There were only three rickety chairs at the table, but Screamer brought in a wooden box from the bedroom and Andrew sat on that. The bread was still warm and good, and the tea was strong. There was no milk or sugar on the table, and Andrew did not think he should ask for any. When they had eaten, Mrs. Wiggins said, “All right. Now tell us what happened.”
Andrew did, and they listened, Mrs. Wiggins and Screamer with frank—and Sam with grudging—interest.
“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “I must say it does sound as if something’s not right.”
“I dunno,” said Sam. “Maybe the man this Mr. Dennison went off with was a friend and they sent the cabby to tell him,” he jerked his head at Andrew, “where he was.”
“Then why didn’t he tell him?” asked Screamer.
“He didn’t have much of a chance, did he?”
“No,” admitted Mrs. Wiggins. “First off, we’d better find out if there’s any word from him. And also get Andrew some clothes. Do you have any other clothes?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Andrew. “In my bag at Mrs. Gurney’s.”
“Righto.” She turned to Sam. “You run over there, see if there is any word from Mr. Dennison and bring Andrew’s bag back here.” Then, as he hesitated, “What’s wrong? You’re not working for Mr. Holmes today, are you?”
“No. But I was going out with my box.” And he jerked his head at a shoeshine box near the stove.
“You can go out a little later. Cut along now.”
Sam looked at her, at Andrew, then
went out reluctantly.
“I’ve got some marketing to do before I go to work,” said Mrs. Wiggins, getting up. “Screamer will keep you company till I get back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Andrew. “Thank you for all the trouble you’re taking.”
“How could any of us manage if we didn’t do what we could for one another?”
Throwing a shawl over her shoulders and picking up a basket, she went out.
“You think that something did happen to Mr. Dennison?” asked Screamer.
“Yes.”
“So do I. What do you want to do while we’re waiting?”
“I don’t know. What can we do?”
“Will you read to me?”
“If you like. Do you have something to read?”
“I don’t, but Sam does.”
She reached under the cot, brought out a crumpled penny dreadful and gave it to him. He had read many of them himself, much to his Aunt Agnes’ annoyance, but this was one he had not seen before. It was titled The Boy Detective, and the lurid cover showed a boy crouching behind a barrel and watching a cloaked figure that stood at the end of a dock in silhouette against a full moon. Again Andrew felt a twinge of jealousy. Though he had read about detectives, Sam not only knew one but actually worked with him.
Opening the book, he said, “I’ll read it to you if you read the first page to me.”
Screamer squirmed uncomfortably. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can. You did very well at the zoo. Try it. I’ll help you.”
“All right.” In an uncertain voice, she began, “‘The thick yellow fog crept in from the river. Tom walked up the middle of the dark street listening to the lapping of the water in the …’” She hesitated.
“Distance.”
“Distance.” She went on, pausing occasionally but gaining confidence, until she reached the bottom of the page.
“That was very good,” said Andrew.
“Was it? All right. Now you.”
She gave him the book, pressed close to him, eyes on the well-thumbed pages, as he continued the story. He had almost finished it when there were footsteps on the stairs. Snatching the book from him, Screamer hid it under the cot again. The door opened, and Sam and Mrs. Wiggins came in together.
“Where’s the bag?” asked Screamer.
“Tell them,” said Mrs. Wiggins.
“The landlady almost called the coppers when I told her I was there for you,” said Sam to Andrew. “She said a man stopped by last night with a note from Mr. Dennison saying as how he was sick and staying with a friend—the man who brought the note—and so were you.”
“The note said I was with him?” said Andrew.
“Yes.”
“What kind of a man was this?”
“A young ’un. Why?”
“I wondered if it was the cabby.”
“No. The landlady said he was a gentleman, real well spoken. Anyway the note asked if she’d please give the man Mr. Dennison’s bag and yours, and it said just what they looked like, so she did.”
“Well, there you are,” said Andrew. “That proves something’s wrong.”
“How?”
“Well, I’m not with Mr. Dennison. That means the whole thing is a lie.”
“Maybe not the whole thing,” said Sam. “Maybe your Mr. Dennison is sick and is staying with a friend.”
“Then why did he say I was with him.”
“I dunno.”
“I think Andrew’s right,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “I think something is wrong and he’d better talk to the police. The thing is, what’s he going to do until they find his Mr. Dennison?”
“He’ll stay here with us,” said Screamer.
“You’re balmy!” said Sam. “He can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t have the room.”
“He can sleep on the mattress there.”
“And what about food? You know we just about get along as it is.”
“Mum!” said Screamer, looking at her mother pleadingly.
“I’m sorry, but Sam’s right,” said Mrs. Wiggins unhappily. “I feel bad about it because I like Andrew too—he’s a nice boy—but I don’t know how we could manage. I’m sure if he goes to the police, they’ll take care of him, find some place for him to stay.”
“No!” said Screamer.
“Now, Sara,” Mrs. Wiggins began.
Screamer screamed. She closed her eyes, her body went stiff, and she screamed so loudly and piercingly that the sound was like a physical blow. Mrs. Wiggins and Sam both flinched.
“Screamer, stop that!” said Mrs. Wiggins sharply.
She stopped only long enough to take a deep breath, then screamed again, even louder.
“You heard Mum!” shouted Sam. “Stop that or I’ll belt you!” and he raised a threatening hand.
Screamer ignored him, and Andrew backed away. It seemed impossible for that sound to come from such a small, thin body—impossible for it to continue at that volume and pitch—but it did. Mrs. Wiggins and Sam both had their hands to their cars now. Mrs. Wiggins looked helplessly at Sam.
“All right! All right!” she said finally. “You’re giving me a headache and busting my eardrums. He can stay.”
“Mum!” said Sam.
“Don’t you start giving me trouble, too. I said he can stay. For a while anyway.”
“Sure,” said Sam bitterly. “We’ll all just eat less. And what about clothes? I ain’t got nothing I can give him.”
“I’ll get him some clothes,” said Screamer.
“Where?”
“Where you get yours when you need ’em. From the Samaritan Society or the Salvation Army.”
“All right. He’s your friend. You take care of him. I’m off.” And picking up his shoeshine box he went out, slamming the door behind him.
“You mustn’t mind Sam,” said Mrs. Wiggins to Andrew. “He’s not mean or anything like that. It’s just that things have been hard since Mr. Wiggins died. And even worse lately because I haven’t been too well myself, haven’t been able to do as much work as I used to. But one way or another, we’ll manage.”
“No,” said Andrew. “If Screamer can get me some clothes, I’ll go.”
“Go where? You don’t have anyone else, know anyone else in London, do you?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll stay here with us till we get this sorted out. Now I’ve got to go myself. The lady I char for has company coming for lunch and wanted me in early. I’ll see you both tonight.” And wrapping herself in her shawl, she left.
“You’re not angry, are you?” asked Screamer anxiously.
“At what?”
“At the way Sam acted. Like Mum said, he worries.”
“No, I’m not angry.”
“That’s good. He’ll come around. I’ll go get some clothes for you. If they’ve got any at the Samaritan Society, I shouldn’t be long. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”
“Yes. I’ll be all right.”
When the door closed, he went to the window and looked out. There was a cobbled courtyard below. To the right was the narrow alley through which he had come the night before. To the left was a wider passage that must lead out to the street. As he watched, Screamer came out into the courtyard, waved to someone and hurried out through the passage.
He remained there after she had disappeared, trying to decide how he felt. Certainly no worse than he had the day before. He had been completely alone then, with no one to talk to—no one who cared the least bit about him. Not only that but he had been threatened in a way and for reasons he could not comprehend. Now, for the moment at least, he was safe. More important, he had a friend—and perhaps more than one. For he believed that Mrs. Wiggins did like him as she had said she did. As for Sam, he was probably a little jealous for several reasons, particularly because of the way Screamer felt about him. But in time he might get over it as Mrs. Wiggins had said he would. So much for the present
. As for the future, that was still dark, obscure. He had no idea what was going to become of him. But despite that, it seemed that there had been a dim light at the end of the alley after all.
As he stood there, he heard a strangely familiar sound—a horse stamping his hoofs—and he realized he had heard it several times before without recognizing it. But once he did, he became aware of the not too unpleasant smell of manure that went with it. There must be a stable nearby.
When Screamer came back she was carrying a bundle of clothes.
“I hope these’ll do,” she said, handing them over. “They didn’t have too much there.”
He looked at them. There was a jacket and trousers that didn’t match and were quite worn and not too clean. There was a shirt that was clean—it had been washed—but had no collar.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll go inside and put them on.”
“Why inside?” she asked. And when he didn’t answer, “You are a nellie. I got a brother, haven’t I? But go ahead.”
He went into the other room, which had a bed and a chest of drawers in it. He dropped the blanket that he had wrapped around him and put on the clothes. The shirt fit well enough, but the jacket and trousers were both too big. He folded up the trouser bottoms so they would not drag on the ground and went back into the kitchen, holding them up.
“I don’t suppose you have a belt, do you?” he asked.
“No. But I think we’ve got some string.”
She found some heavy twine in the drawer of the kitchen table and gave it to him. When he had tied it around his waist, securing his trousers, Screamer studied him.
“Well, they’re not exactly like your own things,” she said, “but they’re clothes. And you’ve got your boots. They’re the hardest things to get. Now what?”
“I suppose I’d better go to the police.”
“You suppose?” She looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t like this Mr. Dennison much, do you?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Then why are you going to do it?”
“Well, I can’t just let him disappear and not do anything about it,” he said. There was something else of course. Mr. Dennison was the one link he had to his past, someone who had talked to Aunt Agnes, and, though he had never said anything about it, might know something about his mother.
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1) Page 5
